


The Family Business

by LoveRocket



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 59,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28176714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveRocket/pseuds/LoveRocket
Summary: "Logan's love life is his own business. I don't get involved." Mitchum Huntzberger had never been known for keeping his vows. In fact, he was notorious for breaking them. Yet, there was one vow that he'd managed to keep for almost forty years. Until, one night, he had no choice but to break it. Or, eight times Mitchum Huntzberger didn't get involved in his son's love life, and one time he did.
Relationships: Mitchum Huntzberger/Original Female Character(s), Mitchum Huntzberger/Shira Huntzberger, Rory Gilmore/Logan Huntzberger
Comments: 76
Kudos: 163





	1. The Party

**Author's Note:**

> Okay… so remember ages ago when I mentioned in the author's notes of BLP that I was working on a Mithcum/Logan centric one-shot? If you do, you might have assumed that I'd given up on it, because it was so long ago. But, I haven't. What happened was that (per my typical M.O.) it got way too long to be a single one shot. I've been struggling so much trying to widdle it down, But I wasn't just killing my darlings, I was massacring them. So, I have decided to make it a short fic instead.
> 
> It's told in Mitchum's POV, which may not be everyone's cup of tea. And Rory is mostly in the background. So there is not a ton of straight Rogan content. However, Rogan is the primary theme. I hope you will at least give it a chance if that doesn't seem exactly your cup of tea right away. It also has no ties at all to the world of BLP. It is a stand alone piece. 
> 
> I have the majority of it already written, so hopefully updates will come quickly. And I will try my best not to let it get in the way of consistent BLP updates. Anyway, here goes. I really hope you guys like this.

" _Kid, be my son. What I've done to you is rotten. Say, I was scared. I kept marching in one place._

_Marching in time to at tune I'd forgotten. I loved you. I love you. I meant no disgrace._

_This, here, is love – when we're talking face to face._

_Father to son, I for one would take love slower. I made my choice. You can sing a different song._

_Watch as you sing how your voice gets much lower. You'll be, kid. A man, kid. If nothing goes wrong._

_Sing for yourself as you march along."_

* * *

**The Party**

"Shira!"

The booming voice of Mitchum Huntzberger echoed through the halls of his massive Connecticut home. He was standing in his bedroom, furiously digging through the contents of his watch box, cursing everyone and everything responsible for putting him in this position. When he didn't get a response from his wife, he yelled again.

"Shira!"

"What?!" she called back to him. Her voice was shrill but faint as it drifted upward from the living room at the bottom of the stairs.

"Where are my navy Mont Blanc cufflinks?!" he asked.

His fingers were still picking through the collection of miscellaneous jewelry, cufflinks, watch batteries, and dozens of other indiscriminate items that had accumulated in the bottom drawer of the box over the years. But, try as he might, he couldn't seem to locate the objects of his desire.

"Why would I know, Mitchum?!" Shira called. "They should be in your watch box!"

"Well they're not!"

"Well, then wear a different pair! We're _late!"_

Mitchum slammed the bottom drawer of his watch box closed just a little too hard. Annoyance and frustration were coursing through every single vein in his body. Apparently they were _late_. They were late for a party that he didn't even want to attend in the first place and hadn't even been made aware of until he'd arrived home yesterday fresh off a red eye from D.C.

He was exhausted. The week had passed by in a furious and frenzied blur – most election weeks did when you worked in the media. He was once again running on four hours of sleep, and he'd just arrived home from a two and a half hour commute from the New York office only to find his navy blue suit laid out on the bed and a less than pleased wife smoking on the back patio – a wife who never stopped to think that maybe tonight wasn't the best night to commit Mitchum to attending yet another asinine party.

He was supposed to have arrived home over an hour ago, but he just hadn't been able to make it work. Frankly, he didn't even attempt to make it work. Unlike his wife, attending yet another Friday night social function was not his biggest priority. In fact, as far as his priorities went, it ranked pretty much as close to the bottom as one could get.

Still, he knew there was no sense fighting it. They were going to this party whether he liked it or not, and nothing was going to keep Shira from making sure it happened. Twenty-six years of marriage had left him perfectly aware of that fact, and it wasn't a battle that was forth fighting. This battle called for a white flag. He'd fight his battles tomorrow by insisting that he be left alone to catch up on some sleep, pop the cork off the bottle of Macallan 18 Sherry Oak that his sister had sent him for his birthday, and finally crack open _Plan of Attack_ so Bob wouldn't catch him in an another obvious lie the _next_ time he went to D.C.

For now, however, he would find an alternative pair of cufflinks, straighten his tie, and slap a smile on his face to make his wife happy. Because, when Shira was happy, Mitchum was happy – or at the very least grateful for the silence.

Realizing that it would be in his best interest not to waste any more time, Mitchum opened the middle drawer of his watch box and picked out a pair of generic silver bar cufflinks and finished getting dressed. As he started walking down the hall and the stairway, he called out to Shira again.

"How long exactly do we need to stay at this thing?" he asked. "Cause I'd love to be home by ten!"

"Good plan," an unexpected voice responded as he reached the bottom of the stairs. "Wouldn't want you to turn into a pumpkin."

Mitchum startled as his eyes landed on the sight of his youngest child sitting on the couch in his living room, dressed as if he were going somewhere. He was donned in a grey suit and black turtle neck combo, and his hair was tousled in that deliberately messy way that kids these days seemed to find fashionable – not that Logan ever needed to be deliberate about his hair looking tousled. He remembered plenty of battles over the years as Shira would try to get their very hyperactive very impatient son to sit still as she attempted to tame the naturally messy waves on his head to no avail.

He was nursing a glass of scotch, and Mitchum suppressed a frustrated groan as he realized that it was probably from the coveted bottle of Macallan that he had just moments ago been looking forward to opening himself. He very briefly thought about kicking himself for being stupid enough to keep any bottle of Macallan out in the open when Logan was around. But, then, Logan wasn't supposed to live here anymore. So, how should he have known to be prepared for this?

"What the hell are _you_ doing here?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow at his son.

"It's nice to see you too, Dad," Logan replied. "I'm great. Thanks for asking."

Mitchum wasn't amused. He'd always thought that kids were supposed to outgrow this – the need to be sarcastic and quarrelsome with their parents at every single given opportunity. Yet, Logan never had. The kid was twenty-one years old – twenty-two in just a few short months - and he had moved out of their house three years ago. Still, he acted like a petulant fifteen year old every time he saw them. The kid's smart mouth drove him absolutely crazy and not just because of the contemptuous lack of respect that accompanied it. He also had to constantly bite his tongue to keep from screaming at him about all of the things Elias would have said and done to _him_ if he had talked to his father that way.

Logan had no idea how easy his life was. How lucky he was to have Mitchum as a father instead of his grandfather. Or, God forbid, his _great-_ grandfather. That man made Ted Bundy look like Santa Claus.

"I don't know why you're here, what you did, or what you want. But your mother and I are going to a party this evening so I don't have time to - "

"I know," answered Logan.

"You know?" Mitchum asked. Logan nodded. "Then why are you here?"

"Well…" said Logan. "I know you'll be heartbroken to hear that I didn't just drop by tonight to spend some quality father-son bonding time with you. But, I'm here because I was invited. I go to Yale, you know."

Mitchum didn't need a reminder that Logan went to Yale. The $40,000 check he had just written to the bursar was more than enough reminder of the fact. It was a lot of money to shell out every year to fund what seemed to be Logan's ability to do nothing but blow off his school work, drink endless amounts of alcohol, smoke copious amounts of pot, and fuck a never-ending line of co-eds seeking their MRS degrees.

Mitchum was perfectly aware that Logan went to Yale. But, that didn't explain why he was coming to this party. Mitchum didn't even want to go to this party. He definitelydidn't understand why his twenty-one-year-old son would voluntarily agree to spend his Friday night mingling among a group of old Yale alumni over cocktails and the ambient sounds of smooth jazz. He didn't even seem upset about it, which meant that he probably couldn't even blame Shira for somehow coercing him into it.

"Finally! Let's go! We should have left thirty minutes ago," Shira called as she walked into the living room from outside. Judging by the faint smell of smoke and the open Altoid tin in her hand, it was clear that she had been smoking the entire time Mitchum was upstairs. It was enough to make him briefly consider backing out and heading right back upstairs. After all, he was only doing this to appease his wife, and if she was already upset enough with him to be smoking minutes before leaving for a cocktail party, then the point seemed moot. But, then he thought better of it.

Logan stood up from his seat on the couch, knocking back the rest of his drink with one tilt of his head. Mitchum suppressed a groan at the sight of his expensive single malt whiskey was being treated like a shot of Jameson, but he supposed it was better than the drink going unfinished. In truth, he didn't know what he was more upset with, the fact that Logan was wasting his prized birthday scotch or the fact that only one of them had the benefit of a drink running through their bloodstream at this particular moment.

"Honestly, Logan…" Shira continued. She looked their son up and down, frowning at his choice of outfit. "You couldn't manage to wear a tie? Or did you just not have a single pressed shirt you could have worn under that suit?"

"Unfortunately, Berkeley College's laundry service was disbanded last year due to budget cuts."

Shira rolled her eyes and shoved her Altoid tin into her clutch. Grabbing their son's arm, she pushed him through the house in the direction of the garage.

"Don't be smart," she said. "Get in the car."

On the way to their destination, Mitchum found himself watching Logan through the rearview mirror more times than he had since he was probably about ten years old. Suspicion. That had always been the primary motivator. Logan had been a troublesome and mischievous child. He was loud and boisterous, and when he got too hyper it was almost certain that he was about to find a way to cause problems. If he went more than a couple seconds without a pair of eyes on him or a stern voice telling him to sit down and stop whatever it was that he was doing, chaos would almost always reign.

Now… well now Logan was just as troublesome and mischievous, but the tells were different (and the consequences far more expensive). Where Mitchum had once been able to tell he was up to something by his energetic and erratic behavior, now it was the quiet that caused him to feel a foreboding sense of unease. Logan's hyperactivity had settled since he was a boy, but 'quiet' was still not a term one could use to accurately describe him.

Tonight, Logan was being quiet. He'd been distracted since they climbed in the car, answering his mother's prattling questions and commentaries with nothing more than a handful of monosyllabic responses and a couple 'that's great, Moms.' He hadn't even objected or rolled his eyes when Shira had gone on about how Margorie and Ted Fallon were sure to be at the party this evening with their daughter Heather, and she was just _dying_ to introduce them. Heather went to Bryn Mawr, you know. The grunt of acknowledgement Logan had given her lacked an ounce of protest, and Mitchum had to wonder if the boy had even heard the words that had come out of his mother's mouth.

Much to both Logan and Mitchum's annoyance and dismay, Shira had dedicated almost all of her energy in the last year to ensuring that the future Mrs. Logan Huntzberger was on the scene by the time he graduated. According to Shira, they had no time to waste. Logan had never even brought a girl home, and people would be expecting an engagement not long after he finished school. They were running out of time for him to meet a nice girl, have an adequate courtship followed by an appropriately long engagement, and have Logan married off and making heirs by the time he was in his late twenties.

Logan's reaction to her attempts to sell him off like a prized stallion were typically much more confrontational and quarrelsome than his behavior at the current moment. Shira seemed pleased with the development, but Mitchum knew better. He'd listened to Logan rant and rave about the subject too many times to suddenly think he was perfectly happy to meet Heather Fallon at his mother's bequest. And, in truth, Mitchum wouldn't have needed to hear Logan's thoughts about his mother's meddling to know how he felt.

He knew exactly how Logan felt. He knew because he had been put through the same exhausting and embarrassing ordeal when he was his son's age. His family had always been far too concerned with his personal life, so concerned that his personal life had stopped feeling personal and started feeling like an item on the agenda of a board meeting.

Logan drove him absolutely crazy, and it was true that they hardly had the most functional of relationships… but he wasn't going to do that to his son. He'd promised himself a long time ago that he wouldn't do that to his son. He'd made that promise to himself before he even had a son or knew if he ever would. And he hadn't only promised himself. He'd promised someone else the same thing, someone who he'd broken too many promises to. But, he still had the power to keep this one, even if he was the only person who would ever know about it.

Mitchum would never get involved in Logan's life that way, even if it meant disturbing the already precarious peace between himself and his wife.

The only explanation for Logan's lack of protest was that he was distracted, distracted by the sight of the passing houses outside of his car window, distracted by the messages on his phone – or perhaps the lack thereof. In the fifteen minutes they had been driving, Logan had flipped open his phone so many times that he had eventually stopped putting it back in his pocket. The small silver device was now attached permanently to his hand as if he were waiting for something or checking on something.

His knee was bouncing, evidence of the fact that whatever was going on in his head wasn't matching his state of apathy on the outside. He was anxious – worried even. Mitchum might have even thought that the kid was upset at the fact that they were running late. It was one of the most baffling displays of behavior he had ever seen from his son. But, it was quickly topped when they pulled into the driveway of their destination and Logan all but jumped out of the car once it was in park. It was when he made a beeline for the door, almost leaving him and Shira in the dust behind him when Mitchum finally felt the need to say something.

"What the hell is up with you?" he asked as Logan reached forward and pressed the doorbell. The chime sounded around them, and Logan narrowed his eyes.

"Nothing…" he said with a shrug. His scrutinizing tone made it sound as if Mitchum was the one being unreasonable or acting erratically, but he knew that wasn't the case. Even the maid knew that wasn't the case when Logan all but shoved his coat at her once the door was open and almost trampled her on his way into the house.

"Sorry…" Mitchum mumbled to the young girl on behalf of his son. She merely smiled timidly at him as she left to put their coats away.

As they turned to the left and started to make their way into the bustling party around them, Mitchum looked around at his surroundings and was suddenly hit with a startling and groan-inducing realization. Their hostess had pulled out all the stops. Every table set up in the house was covered in the finest blue linen and opulent flower arrangements. The catering staff was walking around with trays full of the finest hors d'oeuvres. The entire house was packed with an impressive guest list…

Napoleon and Bunny Barnes with their son, Kip. Arthur and Rita Campbell with their son, Dustin. Steven and Rosemary McAllister with their son, Brooks. Joseph and Phyllis Martindale with their son, Alex.

He suddenly had the distinct feeling that Margorie Ted Fallon were _not_ going to be in attendance with their daughter, Heather.

"Dear God…" Shira said through a smile and clenched teeth, as she slipped her hand through his arm and squeezed. "We've brought our son to a meat market."

Mitchum couldn't help but think that it served her right. In fact, he was far more amused than annoyed with this turn of events. Mitchum turned to his right, expecting to see a look of utter disgust and displeasure on Logan's face as he started teasing him about where to set his opening auction price. Yet, true to his strange and out of character behavior, Logan didn't seem concerned at all. He was too busy looking around the room with rapt concentration. As if to find something… or someone.

"Mitchum! Shira!"

As the sounds of their names pierced through the crowd in a cheerful and melodic tone of voice, their attention became focused on the sight of their hostess walking toward them with a beaming smile and her arms open to welcome them. Mitchum took a deep breath, preparing himself to put on airs and keep them there for the rest of the evening, and then he elbowed his son next to him, focusing his attention back to the present reality. Logan startled next to him and almost looked sheepish before clearing his throat.

"Emily!" Shira said, matching the other woman's saccharine tone to a T. She slipped her arm out of Mitchum's and stepped forward, greeting the older woman with two kisses on the cheek. "These new draperies are absolutely _divine!_ You must send me your decorator's information."

"Why, thank you, Shira. I'll have it to you tomorrow!" Emily said. "Hello, Mitchum."

"Emily. You look lovey." The woman's eyes flitted past Mitchum and landed on Logan. She smiled a shit-eating grin and Mitchum could feel his wife physically recoil into herself at the sight of it.

"And this _can't_ be Logan."

"Afraid so," Mitchum answered. Next to him, he felt Logan tense, as if he could sense some sort of slight packed into the words – a slight that hadn't been intended but was perceived nonetheless.

"My God, the time does fly…" said Emily. "You've certainly gotten taller since the last time I saw you."

"And yet the Knicks still want nothing to do with me," Logan said with a smooth and steady charm that Mitchum found simultaneously annoying and beneficial.

The ladies tittered at the comment, but Mitchum had to suppress an eyeroll. Logan's effortless charisma got him into and out of more problems than Mitchum deemed appropriate, but he'd be lying if he didn't realize what an asset it was going to be to the business in a few years' time. Logan was the kind of person who could sell sawdust to a lumber mill. At times, Mitchum thought his son might even be better at negotiating and charming his way through life than he was. And that was saying a lot.

"It's so nice to see you again, Emily," Logan continued. "If you'll excuse me, I think I see a friend of mine from one of my econ classes. I've been meaning to chat with him about our lecture yesterday."

Mitchum wasn't sure he'd ever heard that much bullshit come out of Logan's mouth at one time. He had to clear his throat to keep from scoffing.

"Of course, Logan. You go on," said Emily. "I'm sure you kids will have much more to talk about than us boring old folks."

Emily's eyes lingered on Logan as he walked through the living room and out to the back patio. Mitchum's gaze followed him as well. His brow furrowed as he continued to move as if he were on a mission. Logan wanted something. He came here for something. And Mitchum had a feeling it didn't have anything to do with an econ classmate.

"That's a handsome young man you have there, Shira," said Emily.

Shira's hand was suddenly grabbing onto his arm again. The only thing keeping his skin from being punctured by his wife's perfectly manicured fingers were the layers of his shirt and suit jacket. Even so, she was holding on to him so tightly that it was still slightly uncomfortable.

"He's a charmer," Shira chimed, keeping her tone light despite her no doubt murderous state of mind.

"Well the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Emily said, smiling at Mitchum.

He pursed his lips to keep in a chortle and forced a smile in return. People always like to pretend that he and Logan had far more in common than they actually did. Logan had his square jaw and his cheekbones. They shared a chin and a head of blond hair – though his had long ago darkened on the sides with age. And, admittedly, it seemed that Logan had inherited his ability to walk into any room full of strangers and leave with a handful of friends. But, that was about where the resemblance stopped. The older Logan got, the clearer is became that they were very different people.

"I think the apple got shipped to China a while go, actually," he replied.

Emily chimed in with protestations, but they were met on mostly deaf ears. Even Shira didn't bother trying to correct him. She knew he was right just as well as he did. Plus, he was distracted trying to figure out exactly where Logan had run off to in such a hurry. He'd walked right past the bar, and out of the corner of his eye Mitchum could see Colin suffering through a conversation with his father with Logan nowhere in sight. If he wasn't here for the free drinks, and he wasn't here to meet up with his best friend, then Mitchum really had no idea what was going on with his son.

"You know… my granddaughter, Rory, is here tonight. I would just _love_ to introduce them…" Emily continued. All the while, Shira's death grip on his arm intensified. Apparently, she did _not_ think that was a good idea. Though, Mitchum couldn't understand why. After all, not fifteen minutes ago Shira had been ready to sell Logan off to Heather Fallon. He didn't see why the change in feminine party really made all that much of a difference.

"… that is if they haven't met already."

Suddenly, Mitchum's interest was piqued.

"Oh?" Shira squeaked. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, Rory is on the paper," she said, as if it was the most obvious fact in the world. Although, now that he thought of it, he probably _should_ know that. Richard had mentioned it before. In fact, he'd talked his ear off about it the last time they'd seen each other at the club. "And I assume Logan is back on staff…"

"Yes," Mitchum replied after clearing his throat. Logan _was_ back on staff at The Daily News. In theory. Of course, he would actually have to write something in order for that theory to become practice.

"Well… there you go," said Emily. "They're probably already friends!"

Something clicked at that moment, and an uneasy feeling settled in his chest. He started looking around the house again, wondering if he could catch a glimpse of what Logan was up to outside. Unfortunately, from his position near the stairway he wasn't able to see much of anything.

"Ladies," he said. "If you'll excuse me, I'm overdue for a drink…"

Shira gave him a look that could kill as he broke away from her grip and left her there to fend off Emily Gilmore's attempts to marry her granddaughter off to their only son. She quickly covered it up, however, when Emily drew her attention back with more questions about Logan and Honor and whether or not she was ever going to marry 'that Bartlett boy.' They seemed to be getting that question often lately. So often, Mitchum was starting to assume it was only a matter of time before he was signing checks for a $700,000 wedding – probably more knowing his daughter.

But, right now, his focus wasn't on the inevitable nuptials of his oldest. Right now, his attention was on the motivations and preoccupations of his youngest. He was starting to think that he had an understanding of why Logan had been so eager to accompany them to the Gilmores' house this evening, and he was definitely feeling anxious about it.

He made his way through the living room, waving at friends and acquaintances as he walked toward the bar. Though, as much as he did need a drink, it hadn't been his primary impetus for walking through the house. He was trying to catch a glance of Logan, trying to see if he could make him out through the French doors and windows. Yet, before Mitchum could track him down to tell him to stay the hell away from Richard and Emily Gilmore's granddaughter, he realized that he was too late.

"Well apparently she's already with _Logan Huntzberger."_

Dread settled in Mitchum's body like a ball of lead in his gut. He turned his head to the right and found the Chase family standing not ten feet away from his current position in line at the bar. The boy – Mitchum couldn't recall his name – seemed genuinely upset, and all three of them kept snapping their glances to the window on Mitchum's left.

Sure enough, when he followed Hillary Chase's glance out to the patio, his eyes finally landed on a head of familiar blond hair. Logan was standing across from a girlish but pretty doe-eyed brunette who was looking up at him with an air of gratitude and… familiarity.

He dare not think about what the level of familiarity between them implied. He prayed to the good Lord in Heaven that he didn't even believe in to bless him with the reassurance that it amounted to nothing more than a friendly relationship between two colleagues. But, Mitchum knew Logan. Logan was rarely interested in girls he didn't want to have sex with, and he was so petrified of commitment that even _pretending_ to be involved with the young Gilmore girl in an effort to save her from the Chase boy was a meaningful gesture.

He only hoped it meant nothing to the girl.

"I can't _believe_ you left me alone with her!"

Startled out of his investigation, Mitchum flinched at the sound of his wife's heated voice as she settled herself next to him in line. He did a quick glance over his shoulders, making sure that no one was close enough to hear or see Shira slip from her social façade into her actual personality. Usually they were well on their way home before that happened, but tonight had her coming out in record time.

"I needed a drink," Mitchum responded as he set his empty glass on the counter in front of him and smiled at the bar tender. "Vodka rocks please."

"And I don't?" Shira murmured under her breath.

"And a gin and tonic."

The bar tender made quick work of pouring, and Mitchum left him a generous tip for having the insight to mix Shira's first. She brought it to her lips as soon as it was in her hand, and as soon as they were both set he nudged her gently off to the side of the bar.

"What I really need is a cigarette," she grumbled. "You should have heard her go on about how perfect Logan and Rory would be for each other. You know she's just trying to sell her off to him so we can land her a prestigious job after she graduates."

Mitchum wasn't sure that was Emily's motive at all. After all, she was currently on the other side of the room working Jane and Edward Campbell just as hard as she had them two minutes ago. As far as he was aware, the girl had no culinary aspirations or particular interest in soups. But, then, he didn't actually know her.

"I can't believe we got tricked into this," Shira continued. "As if we would ever support the idea of a girl like Rory being involved with Logan…"

Mitchum's brow furrowed at that comment. He wasn't quite sure where she was coming from in that regard. Granted, he hadn't actually met her, but Rory seemed like a perfectly nice girl on paper. From what he'd heard from Richard over the years, she seemed smart and driven. She came from a prominent family. She was certainly pretty and he doubted Logan was blind to that – it was most likely why he was out there talking to her to begin with. All in all Rory seemed… fine. Better than the endless string of vacuous tarts Logan usually associated with at any rate.

Mitchum was uneasy with the fact that Logan was paying so much attention to the girl but as far as he was concerned, _Rory_ wasn't the issue.

"What's wrong with Rory?" he asked.

"Mitchum," Shira scoffed, looking at him as if he'd grown not one but two extra heads. "What _isn't_ wrong with Rory?"

Mitchum didn't respond. There was no need. The question was hypothetical, and he was well aware of the point his wife was trying to make. He'd heard the message enough times from his own father when he was Logan's age. He was well-versed in what qualified as the "right kind of woman" for the heir of the Huntzberger fortune. Very well versed.

He shoved down a pang in his heart that he'd spend twenty-seven years trying to bury, and sighed.

"Shira… just leave it," he said. "Look around. This party is a joke, and Logan… is _Logan_. Just… drink and make the rounds and we can go home."

Over his wife's head, Mitchum watched through the window as Logan led Rory over to an ice bucket and grabbed a bottle of champagne – a sure fire sign that he was getting ready to grab his friends and abscond over to a faraway corner to spend the evening together at a warped version of a kids' table. He wasn't all that concerned with that. It was how Logan usually handled these kind of events. What concerned him, however, was how eager the young Miss Gilmore seemed to be to follow him.

He pulled Shira away from the window, deciding the best course of action would be to keep her from finding out about their son's unique interest in Richard and Emily's granddaughter. After all, it was probably nothing more than a passing fancy, and Logan's passing fancies usually passed faster than the speed of light.

He'd most likely be bored of the Gilmore girl by the morning. And, even if that wasn't the case, he certainly wasn't going to get involved.

* * *

TBC…


	2. The Renewal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I have to admit, the reaction to this fic was way better than I ever imagined it would be. I definitely thought it would be a niche thing that only a handful of people would be interested in, but so many of you were so positive. Even the people who were skeptical at first sound like they really came around by the end of it. Thank you so much for giving this a shot. I really appreciate it. I know that it's different and Mithcum is hardly a fan favorite. I am just so intrigued in his relationship with Logan (father/son relationships in general always suck me in for some reason) and I really wanted to explore the side of the relationship that we aren't privy to.
> 
> The true emotional meat of this story really is going to take place in the last chapter. So, I hope those of you who might still be a little trepidatious can stick with it until then. I really think it will pay off. At least I hope it does.

**The Renewal**

When the invitation had arrived in the mail, Mitchum had actually laughed out loud. It was a short laugh – a bleat of astonishment and amusement. But it had been a powerful laugh, a laugh from deep within his soul.

_Please join us in honor of_

_Emily Gilmore_

_&_

_Richard Gilmore_

_As we celebrate our love and renew our vows_

_Saturday, the fifth of February, Two thousand and five, at five o'clock in the evening_

_The Windsor Club_

_1 Windsor Club Court, West Hartford, Connecticut_

_Reception and dancing to follow_

He didn't understand vow renewals.

Suffering through the planning and execution of his first wedding had been painful enough. He couldn't imagine having to deal with it all over again – especially if he would be coming home at the end of the night with the same wife he'd brought with him the first time around. He could wrap his mind around having another wedding if he was getting an upgrade, but short of that the whole idea seemed ridiculous to him.

Shira had a different opinion. Though, Shira usually had a different opinion.

She'd been delighted upon receiving the invitation. Of course, Mitchum highly doubted that her enthusiasm had much to do with celebrating Richard and Emily Gilmore. She tried to pretend that her happiness for the older couple was the only reason she was clamoring to attend, but Mitchum knew better. He knew that Shira was looking at the evening as a reconnaissance mission.

The boy hadn't even proposed yet, and Shira was already planning Honor's wedding behind closed doors. Just last week, she had put a hold on the Japanese Tea Garden for spring of 2006, and he'd been finding wedding magazines scattered around the house for weeks. No doubt, his wife saw this evening as an opportunity. Emily Gilmore was an undeniably impeccable party planner, and a vow renewal blessed by her unimpeachable hand would surely be a fountain of inspiration.

"These flower arrangements are stunning," Shira whispered to him as they walked past a particularly large urn filled to the brim with white roses and cascades of greenery dripping down the bottom. The aisle was lined with smaller versions of the same, each of them topped with a large votive candle. Rose petals were strewn across the floor. Shira was overwhelmed by the delicate beauty she saw all around the room. Mitchum only saw dollar signs.

He grunted in acknowledgement as he ushered his wife into an empty seat close to the aisle.

"How long do you think this ceremony is going to take?" Mitchum asked. Shira rolled her eyes at him and sighed as she took her seat.

"I don't know, Mitchum," she replied. She pulled a compact mirror out of her clutch and started fussing with her hair, swiping the strands around her face back into their preferred place. "Probably not long. I don't think they're Catholic."

"And what time does the reception start?"

Shira snapped her compact closed and fixed him with a withering glare.

"The reception starts at seven," she answered. "And would you please keep your voice down? People are going to hear you and assume you don't want to be here."

He _didn't_ want to be here, and anyone that assumed as much would be assuming correctly. He'd tried to convince his wife to skip the ceremony entirely and merely put in a brief appearance at the reception, but that suggestion hadn't gone over well despite his protestations that no one would even notice their absence. As it was, they were now going to have to sit through several minutes the Gilmores' pastor waxing poetically about love and marriage and what a profoundly beautiful institution it all was.

It would perhaps be touching if he wasn't going to be doing it in front of an entire room full of people who had all married each other for money, who had long ago given up on the idea of _love_ , who had settled to spend their lives with spouses that their families had deemed appropriate, and who were cheating on those spouses with their secretaries, maids, and pool boys. Some of the people in this room were even cheating on their spouses with each other. Mitchum himself had to avoid eye contact with Jacqueline Bishop as soon as they'd walked in the door and Shira had enthusiastically greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

That hadn't ended well, and he had a scar on his chin from the glass she'd thrown at him to prove it.

Yet, regardless of his authentic feelings regarding his current location, he supposed Shira had a point about not speaking them out loud. Now was the time to slap a smile on his face and pretend to be thrilled for the happy couple that had already been married for forty years.. He would have to ignore his annoyance and frustration. He would have to disguise his cynicism through a mask of enthusiasm. He would have to shove down the feeling of horror that bubbled within his soul at the mere thought of _forty_ years of marriage.

A strange feeling settled over him at the thought. Mitchum couldn't remember the last time he'd thought of himself as too _young_ , but the concept of a forty year marriage had him feeling it. His parents had been married for sixty-three years when his mother died. That was thirty-seven more years.

Thirty-seven.

In comparison, he supposed spending one night at The Windsor Club no longer seemed so terrible.

One small grace was that they apparently had arrived in the hall just in time. A few short moments after his wife had assured him that the ceremony shouldn't take too long, the melodic sounds of the string quartet that had been echoing in the background since they'd arrived changed tune. The heads of all the guests around them turned to the staircase in the back of the hall, and Mitchum's head quickly followed suit.

As he turned, his eyes landed on the figure of a stunningly beautiful brunette walking down the staircase dressed in a tight fitting periwinkle dress and purple sequin jacket. She was holding a bouquet of white roses in her hands and her dark brown hair was falling down her shoulders in loose waves. His eyes lingered for a moment on the plunging neckline of her dress before he thought better of himself and forced his eyes elsewhere. The last thing he needed to happen this evening was to be caught ogling Richard and Emily's somewhat elusive and mysterious daughter in the middle of their vow renewal ceremony. But, the fact that she was so elusive and mysterious didn't really help matters.

She was different than Mitchum had imagined, not that he spent all that much time thinking about what the Gilmores' only daughter might look like. But when her name did come up in conversation over the years, he'd always found himself imagining a slightly younger version of Emily. This woman didn't look much like Emily Gilmore at all. Her hair was far darker. She was tall and rail thin. And she was young. He always forgot that she was so young.

It was a strange thing to forget considering the well known Gilmore/Hayden scandal that had circled through the Hartford elite at lightning speed in the early eighties. It was all anyone talked about for months, and even when other scandals started to knock it off the top of the charts, talk of the Gilmore family would still bubble up for years afterward. He was well aware of the fact that she'd gotten pregnant with her daughter when she was a mere teenager, but for some reason as the years passed he'd always pictured her closer in age to himself.

Perhaps it was because they were both raising children of the same age.

His eyes followed her as she continued to walk down the aisle, leaving her only when she reached the front and smiled at another pretty young woman bearing the name Gilmore.

This was the first time Mitchum was really laying eyes on her. The glimpses he'd caught of her at the party they'd attended just a couple short months ago were limited in perspective. He'd been so far away and was looking at her through window panes in the dim evening light. Now he had a much clearer look at the girl, and that wasn't all. He also had a much clearer picture of exactly what it was that his son saw in her.

The thought filled him with an uncomfortable sense of anxiety. To this day, he still had no idea what, if anything, had happened between his son and the undeniably beautiful young woman standing next to her grandfather near the altar, and in most other circumstances he wouldn't even care. This was different. This was the granddaughter of two close friends. He went to their Christmas parties. They served on charitable committees together. He was attending their vow renewal for crying out loud.

He used to think that Logan was smart enough not to shit where he ate.

The one small comfort he had regarding the entire situation was that he had yet to receive any angry phone calls from Richard Gilmore screaming about the ways in which his rake of a son had thoroughly debauched and subsequently broken the heart of his pride and joy. He supposed until such a phone call came, he would continue to stay out of it. Chances were that by this point, Logan's interest in her had already waned. So, worrying about it was likely a fruitless endeavor anyway.

Yet, as much as he attempted to convince himself that he had nothing to worry about, he still spent an unsettling amount of time thinking about the situation. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was different this time around. He couldn't get the image of Logan's anxious face as they stood at the front door of the Gilmore's home out of his mind. He couldn't stop hearing the sound of his bouncing knee in the back of the car, or the way that he'd barreled through the living room to find her the instant he was able to break free.

Mitchum had never seen his son behave that way before, and he'd definitely never seen him behave that way over a girl.

Then, as if the universe had somehow heard the nature of his thoughts, Mitchum watched as the young woman's eyes broke away from her mother's and scanned the crowd. Her eyes locked on something - or some _one_ \- and in the briefest of moments, the radiant smile that she had been wearing since the moment she'd walked out beside her grandfather fell from her face. Curious, Mitchum followed her gaze, and when his own eyes landed on her target, he felt a similar sinking feeling in his gut.

* * *

"Did you know Logan was going to be here?"

Mitchum's eyes were glued on the looping calligraphy marking the seating card next to theirs on the table in front of him. The words ' _Logan Huntzberger & Guest, Table Seven' _were printed with such deliberate care, care that would have taken planning, care that would have required his name to be sent off to the printer weeks ago, care that implied he had RSVPed with plenty of time in advance.

Shira looked at him quickly as she tore herself away from the series of smiles and waves that she was sending to friends around the room. In the brief moment that her focus was on him rather than the faces of her adoring public, her eyebrow quirked up in confusion and the smile slipped from her face.

"Yes," she responded as if the answer was obvious, as if the idea of their son coming to this event was something entirely normal and not a hugely out of character move on his part. "Of course I knew he was coming. He asked me to mark him as a yes on the RSVP. Why? Didn't he tell you?"

"No," Mitchum all but scoffed.

He plucked their seating card off of the table and, noticing that there were other people gathered around the table trying to find their own seating arrangements, Mithcum slid his hand across the small of his wife's back and subtly started pushing her into the reception hall. As soon as they were free of the crowd, the smile that Shira had plastered on her face fell for good.

"What did you do this time?" she asked, her tone accusatory and affronted.

"What do you mean, what did I _do?"_ he asked.

"You know perfectly well what I mean, Mitchum," Shira sneered. "He talks to you far more than he talks to me. There must be a reason why I knew he was going to be here before you did."

Mitchum bristled. He knew perfectly well what his wife was accusing him of. She was hardly blind to the tumultuous relationship between himself and his son. Shira had found herself caught in the crosshairs of their arguments and altercations more times than he could count over the last few years, and she loved to blame him for it. Mitchum, however, couldn't help but think that she only had herself to blame. It's not like she'd ever gone out of her way to develop meaningful relationships with either one of their children. If she had, her contact with Logan wouldn't hinge on whether or not he and Mitchum were on good terms at any given point.

"Shira… I don't know what kind of relationship you think we have, but I can assure you Logan never tells me anything," he dismissed. "Besides, I haven't talked to him since Seymore's party."

"Well, I find it odd that he didn't mention it to you then," said Shira

"Well, I find a lot of things _odd_ about Logan," Mitchum replied. "Not the least of which is the fact that he's here tonight."

"I don't understand why you're acting as if this is a bad thing," said Shira, clearly getting impatient with his attitude regarding the boy's presence. "You're the one that's been going on about how he needs to grow up and get his act together. How he needs to stop wasting his time gallivanting around with his idiot friends and start taking himself seriously. And now he's here, doing exactly what you've been asking of him, spending his evening at a respectable party rather than hopping around bars and getting into trouble, and you're acting like he's up to something."

He wasn't sure what point she was trying to make with that statement. The fact that Logan was here doing exactly what Mitchum had asked of him without comment or complaint was exactly _why_ he thought that he was up to something.

Sometimes Mitchum was truly amazed at how oblivious his wife could be when it came to their son, and he wasn't exactly sure what to attribute it to. Perhaps it was denial. Perhaps it was that she had always easily fallen victim to a charming wink and a smile. Perhaps it was simply the complicated relationship dynamics that existed between a great many mothers and their sons. But, whatever the reason, Shira seemed to think that the sun rose and fell with their youngest.

Mitchum knew better.

Mitchum knew that when Logan started behaving himself a little _too_ well, it always meant that he had ulterior motives. And the fact that he'd, once again, shown up voluntarily to an event thrown by the Gilmores of all people was a massive red flag in his mind.

"Besides…" Shira continued. A satisfied smile spread across her face and she turned her head back toward the entryway of the reception hall. "Did you see who's with him?"

Mitchum took the cue from his wife. He turned around himself and almost had to do a double take at the sight just yards away from them. Standing near the doorway chatting with Skylar Lewis and his newest wife was Logan. His right arm was raised as he brought a glass of scotch to his lips, and perched on his left was the arm of Jewel Fitzgerald.

"Isn't _that_ something?" Shira asked. Self-satisfaction dripped from her tone and her smile morphed into a Cheshire cat like grin.

Mitchum's brow furrowed in confusion, and he found himself entirely distracted by the sight. He was almost transfixed for a moment, because every single thought he'd been mulling over since his eyes landed on his son during the ceremony suddenly stopped making sense. He didn't know what to think. He didn't know what was going on. For every question he'd been asking about Logan's motives previously, ten more arose. The only question it answered was why Shira didn't seem to be at all bothered by the idea that their son was, once again, in the same room as the Gilmores' granddaughter.

"Mitchum!"

Shocked out of his stupor, Mitchum turned toward the sound of the baritone voice calling out to him. A slightly older bald man donning a suit with a sharp red tie was making his way over to them. He recognized him right away, and he realized that for the time being he would need to table his concerns over Logan. Now wasn't the time for suspicions or interrogations. Now was the time to slap on his best party face and start mingling.

"Bob!" he greeted enthusiastically, holding his hand out to the man walking over to him. "How are ya, you son of a bitch?"

* * *

"So, Logan. Your dad here tells me you've been haunting the old halls of The Yale Daily News."

Mitchum chuckled at the statement coming from their table mate's mouth. Frank Potter was an old acquaintance, the kind of person that Mitchum often found himself sitting next to at events such as these. They saw each other so often that it was hard not to keep tabs on each other, but it still wasn't as if they were particularly close. They knew the basics about each other. They knew generally how each other's businesses were going, and some superficial tidbits about each other's children. They didn't, however, know anything of particular substance - such as the fact that Logan hated working at the paper with every fiber of his being.

"Haunting is a great way to put it," Mitchum cut in, filling the silence while Logan swallowed the sip of scotch that was keeping him from replying in due time. "He shows up every once in a blue moon, but his presence is so fleeting that everyone around starts to debate whether or not he was actually real."

Frank humored him with a laugh. and the rest of the table joined in with him. Logan, on the other hand, merely fixed him with a cold emotionless look as he swallowed and took another sip of his drink.

"I'm afraid it's true," Logan smoothly commented. His eyes held Mitchum's gaze firmly, not even breaking away to look at Frank as he responded to the statement. "I try so hard to stay out of sight and out of mind, but every time I end up writing something they keep slapping it above the fold for all to see. Blows my cover."

The kid had some ego. He'd written a total of three articles since the beginning of the semester, and he was acting as if he was the messiah of the entire institution. He also completely missed the point. Logan's issue had never been that he _couldn't_ write, the issue was that he _didn't_ write. His recent little kick since the article he'd written about Professor O'Rourke was hardly enough evidence to make Mitchum think he'd turned over a new leaf and was going to keep up with the consistent writing. And if Logan thought that Mitchum was about to shower him with praise over doing the bare minimum, he had another thing coming.

A slight awkwardness fell over the table at the somewhat obvious show of tension between the father and son. Frank was struggling to find a diplomatic way to keep the mood light and coming up short. Thankfully, fate intervened just in time to relieve him of the pressure. At the front of the room, the band leader took the microphone, introducing the happy couple to the hall full of people for the very first _second_ time. Mitchum swallowed the annoyance he was feeling at Logan's lip and the cynicism he was feeling toward the guests of honor and joined the rest of the room in clapping.

Richard and Emily took to the dance floor at the center of the room, and Mitchum's mind started to wander as Richard began to speak. Across the table, Logan's face was still fixed in an irritated scowl. It stayed that way for a while until Jewel slipped her hand over his shoulder and whispered something that made him smile in his ear. Mitchum was happy to remain ignorant to whatever sentiment she had communicated to him, but he was still curious as to what exactly was going on between them.

The last Mitchum knew Logan and Jewell were friends by circumstance, two people who had gotten close over time not through genuine interest in one another, but merely by proximity. Ed Fitzgerald was one of Mitchum's oldest friends. They'd known each other since Yale, served on the paper together, and had gotten into no end of trouble together in their youth. Jewell, his oldest, was six months younger than Logan, and they'd grown up together as almost surrogate cousins. He had a hard time believing that their relationship had progressed past any sort of platonic affection.

Jewell had better taste than that… and better sense.

She knew all about Logan - probably _more_ about Logan than even Mitchum did.

Shira, on the other hand, hadn't stopped smiling since Jewell sat down next to her at the table. No doubt the wedding that she had been planning in her mind since they'd walked through the door had shifted focus from Honor and Josh to Logan and Jewell. She was absolutely over the moon at the idea that Logan had brought her here with the intention of dating her.

Mitchum didn't believe for a second that those were his intentions, and the withering look that the young woman on the other side of the dance floor was directing toward their table only served to justify that belief.

"At this time, if you're in love we'd like to invite you to join Emily and Richard on the dance floor."

The next thing he knew, a firm hand was sliding over his back. He turned his neck to the side and saw his wife looking at him expectedly. He swallowed a sigh and stood up, realizing that it was time to carry on with the show. Dealing with the fallout from denying her a dance with an invitation of that sort in front of all these people would take a lot more energy than merely sucking it up for a couple minutes. Besides, getting a dance out of the way now rather than later might translate to an earlier departure - if he was lucky.

He stood up, fastening the button on his jacket, and went to pull out his wife's chair.

"My dear," he prompted, earning himself a smile as Shira stood up and placed her napkin on the table.

The surprised look on her face made it seem as though she wasn't expecting the gesture, though they both knew it wasn't true. She laced her arm through his and they both started making their way to the dance floor, stopping only for Shira to send a far less subtle message to their son.

"Logan…" she said before twitching her head over to Jewell. "Aren't you going to ask your lovely date for a dance?"

Logan twitched his eyebrows and only sat further back in his chair.

"I don't dance…" he responded in a tone that suggested his mother should know better than to even ask. In all honesty, she probably should. They would have an easier time convincing Logan to stop frequenting the open bar than they would actually getting him out on the dance floor.

"Logan," Shira repeated, firmly.

"That's okay, Mrs. Huntzberger," Jewell interjected with an amused expression. "I'm not much of a dancer either."

There was nothing in the girl's tone or expression that suggested she was disappointed at not being offered a twirl, and even Shira eventually had to concede the point. Mitchum was able to pull her away from the table without further pause. They made their way to the center of the room, and Shira rested her hand on his shoulder as he started leading her around the floor.

She was talking to him about something as they danced, though he wasn't paying much attention. He nodded and hummed along in an effort to feign interest. But in reality, his mind was far more focused on avoiding the gaze of Jacqueline Bishop over his wife's shoulder.

* * *

"Logan's not making you get your own drinks is he?" Mitchum asked as he slid up behind Jewel at the bar. "You can let me know if I need to kick him in the ass. I'd be more than happy to do it."

Jewell momentarily flinched at the sound of his voice, clearly caught off guard by his sudden presence. But, the surprise on her face quickly melted into a smile as soon as she realized it was him.

"No ass kicking necessary," she responded with a smile as the bartender handed her a glass of red wine. "But I appreciate the offer, Mr. Huntzberger."

"Are you sure?" he asked with a raised brow. "Because I happen to know for a fact that your dear old dad will come after me if I don't make sure my son is treating you right. And as much as it pains me to admit it, I don't think I could take him these days. Vodka rocks please."

The bartender started making quick work of his drink and Mitchum dug into his back pocket for his money clip. He pulled out a few dollar bills and placed them in the jar on the bar.

"I'm sure," said Jewel. "I'm perfectly happy to get my own drinks. Besides, Logan made it incredibly clear before we arrived that this is _not_ a date, so it would hardly be fair of me to expect him to wait on me hand and foot."

Although Mitchum had already expected that there were no romantic implications to Jewell's presence, he was still slightly relieved to hear it. The small level of concern he had regarding the consequences of Logan sniffing around Richard and Emily's granddaughter was nothing compared to the concern he would have if Logan ever set his eye on one of his best friend's daughters. As much as he would like to think that nothing could ever get in the way of a friendship that has lasted for so long, as the father of a daughter himself he knew that wasn't true. If Logan ever started to show genuine interest in Jewell, he might actually have to break the promise he'd made to himself years ago and get involved.

The bartender handed him his drink and Mitchum turned around, scanning the crowd for a glimpse of his son. However, he was slightly surprised to find that his search came out empty.

"Where is Logan, by the way?" he asked. Jewel turned to look around herself, clearly just as taken off guard by his absence in the reception hall as he was.

"I'm not sure," she said with an unconcerned shrug before taking a sip of her wine. "The last I saw him he was dancing with that girl in the suit. The one that was in the wedding party? I think he mentioned something about knowing her from Yale."

Jewell was entirely blind to the heavy implications of the words that had just fallen from her lips. Her pithy and nonchalant tone was entirely unconcerned. She didn't seem to find anything particularly telling in the fact that Logan had mentioned the Gilmore girl to her, or the fact that she had - somewhat miraculously - gotten Logan out on the dance floor.

The only woman that Mitchum had ever seen succeed at getting Logan out on the dance floor was Honor, and it usually involved far more alcohol than he had imbibed this evening as well as some emotional blackmail.

"Excuse me," he said, cooly, reaching out to squeeze the girls arm in an affectionate yet paternalistic gesture.

"Sure," Jewell replied.

Mitchum spun on his heel and started making his way out of the reception hall. He would almost feel bad about leaving Jewell behind if it weren't for the fact that she was such an attractive young woman. There was no doubt in his mind that she would quickly find someone to occupy her time. In fact, he was probably doing her a favor. As it was, Mitchum was suddenly quite invested in finding his son. He couldn't help but notice that the young Gilmore was also curiously absent from the hall, and all things were adding up to a precarious situation.

As Mitchum stepped into the empty vestibule, he found himself on a precipice, measuring various pros and cons in his head. On one hand, Mitchum was loath to get involved in Logan's private life. As long as he got his work done and showed up when Mitchum requested his presence, Mitchum didn't particularly care how Logan… entertained himself. And, recently, even Mitchum had to admit that Logan was fulfilling his obligations as well as he could be expected to in that regard. But, on the other hand -

"Calm down?! There's a guy in there pawing my daughter!"

Mitchum closed his eyes and sighed. He didn't recognize the angry voices echoing down the halls, and he had no visual confirmation as to who they were coming from. But he didn't particularly need any. He was an intelligent man. He had a degree from a university that many would argue was the best in the nation. He was the CEO of a multimillion dollar publishing business. He'd been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Putting two and two together was something relatively easy for him.

He stood there for a moment, wondering what exactly his next move should be. Ultimately, he landed on nothing. At this point, the worst of his concerns had been realized. Getting involved now would only add more fire to a situation that, by the sounds of it, was plenty hot enough. Instead, he would stick to his guns - keep his hands clean of Logan's personal messes and only intervene if Richard Gilmore ended up threatening to castrate the kid in front of the entire crowd assembled here this evening. As much as Logan might have it coming to him, Mitchum still wouldn't mind having grandchildren at some point in the future.

Strangely enough, in the minutes that passed after the time Mitchum decided to leave well enough alone and return to the party, the smile never left Richard's face. Their granddaughter returned to the hall, looking only slightly rumpled in her Diane Keatonesque get up, and her grandparents greeted her with delight, oblivious to anything that had transpired just outside the room. Mitchum, however, wasn't so lucky.

He felt a vibration in his pocket, and reached down to extract his BlackBerry.

" _Something came up. Had to leave. Can you take Jewell home? Tell her sorry for me."_

Mitchum didn't respond. Of course, he was going to take Jewell home, but he would let Logan stew in anticipation for a while and worry over leaving his date stranded. It was what he deserved. It was far less than he deserved.

Still, there was one silver lining to the disaster that had occurred down the hall. Now that Logan had apparently gotten what he wanted out of the Gilmore girl - in a Country Club dressing room at that - Mitchum could finally put his concerns to rest. Logan's interest in her had reached its inevitable conclusion, and after being threatened and borderline assaulted by the girl's father and some other extremely protective father figure, it surely wasn't going to resurface.

At last, Mitchum could stop worrying about whether or not he was going to have to get involved.

* * *

TBC….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so fun story about this chapter. I was writing the thing about the table card and just arbitrarily decided to put Logan at table seven. But then I remembered there is actually a scene in that episode where Rory sees his name on the seating chart. So, I thought that I should probably go back and actually look at what table he was at and it WAS table seven! How weird is that?! I'm taking it as the universe blessing this chapter. Lol.
> 
> Also, let's all collectively assume that Logan called Jewell to apologize and sent her some flowers or something. I thought briefly about making him come back into the hall to grab her before he left, but on my rewatch of the episode, Rory clearly states that he immediately got in his car and left. So… he definitely left her behind. It's not my fault. Haha.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for reading. Hope you all enjoyed.


	3. The Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! I'm really sorry it's taken me a while to get out any updates this week. I'm just going to be completely honest and tell you that it's been really hard to focus. Every day is like waiting on eggshells to hear the next new terrifying thing out of DC, and I'm very distracted. I'm sure my fellow Americans can understand, and I hope my non-American readers can empathize or at least sympathize. Hopefully, writing will be a bit easier after tomorrow… if we can make it through tomorrow. Lol(?)

**The Dinner**

The sight of the black Porsche Cayman sitting in his driveway was mocking him. The moment his headlights had illuminated the vehicle, an involuntary groan rose unbidden from the depths his throat, and not only because it was blocking his access to the garage.

A quick glance down at his watch confirmed that it was a few minutes past eight-thirty, and he had to make peace with the fact that he'd been wrong for the second time that day. Mitchum didn't like to be wrong. He wasn't often wrong. Yet, somehow in the span of twelve hours, he'd been faced with the reality that he'd been wrong not once, but twice.

He thought they would be gone now. They being his son and the Gilmore girl. His _girlfriend_.

It was a concept he was still wrapping his head around. He'd always thought that he knew Logan better than most. He had a particular insight into the boy's mindset and motives. He was the his father, after all. He'd raised him from birth and been present for most of the up, downs, and in-betweens of the kid's life. And, if the twenty-two years of experience wasn't enough to clue Mitchum into what went on inside the boy's head, there was also the fact that it hadn't been that long ago that Mitchum himself was a twenty-two-year-old college student with the world at his feet.

At least it didn't feel as if it was that long ago.

The boy was usually far more predictable. When Logan came for dinner, he was out the door by eight. He'd show up midway through cocktails, claiming issues with traffic or being held back by school - as if all of them didn't see right through that pile of bullshit. He'd leave as soon as the meal was over, usually choosing to skip out on dessert. He'd never had much of a sweet tooth, but Mitchum was pretty sure that his speedy departures had more to do with his desire to leave this house as quickly as humanly possible than his lack of interest in baked goods.

Whatever his motives, he was supposed to be gone by now. That had been the plan. Logan's speedy departures were something that one could count on without fail, like the sun rising in the East or traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel. Yet, perhaps in some strange act of rebellion, it seemed that Logan had recently decided to take up the mantle of the family enigma.

" _She said he's calling her his_ girlfriend."

The call had come in the middle of a meeting with the leadership of The Gazette. He'd been pulled out by his secretary, claiming that his wife was on the line with some kind of family emergency that required his immediate attention. At first, he'd actually thought the worst. His father's heart problems hadn't gotten any better over the last few years, and he and his sister had already started talking about the steps they would need to take if and when such a phone call came.

The surprise he felt couldn't be overstated. When he picked up the phone to discover that his wife hadn't been brought to hysterics by the sudden death of the Huntzberger patriarch, but rather by the fact that their twenty-two-year-old son was apparently bringing his _girlfriend_ home to dinner, he had almost been rendered speechless. It had taken him a couple of moments to get over his shock. The words 'Logan' and 'girlfriend' were not typically heard in the same sentence together - that is… outside of the context of hearing that Logan had gotten himself into trouble by sleeping with someone else's girlfriend.

It was a lot to wrap his head around. It took a while for his brain to start connecting the necessary synapses.

" _Shira…" he sighed over the phone. "The boy is twenty-two years old for Christ's sake. I think it's about time he had a girlfriend. Don't you?"_

The cool tone of his dismissal hadn't exactly matched the thoughts that had been running through his head.. On top of being utterly perplexed by the situation, he was also struggling to come to terms with how entirely wrong he had been. It wasn't a feeling that he was particularly fond of.

He'd been so sure that nothing would come from Logan's strange infatuation with Richard and Emily's granddaughter. He thought that he'd left the worst behind him at that vow renewal. He'd thought that any chance of a scandal had been left behind that evening as soon as the kid had gotten his rocks off. That was Logan's typical modus operandi, after all. He hadn't heard a single peep about the girl since, not from Logan, not from Shira, not from the Gilmores. He thought it was over, that they'd managed to side step over a massive pile of dynamite without creating so much as a spark.

Hearing that the boy had voluntarily entered into a _relationship_ with her was like hearing that NASA had finally discovered life on Europa. Sure, everyone knew that it was possible in theory, but no one really expected it to actually happen in their lifetimes.

In some ways he was relieved. The girlfriend label certainly made things seem a bit more above board. It was a situation that would be far more palatable to Gilmores. As long as Logan could manage to slap on some charm and convince them that he was a perfect gentleman, he didn't think they would have a problem with Logan dating the girl in an official capacity.

Then there were the implications surrounding Logan himself. He couldn't help but wonder if this was some kind of sign that the kid was actually growing up. It was about time he did. It was about time he learned to commit to something other than his own selfish interests. It was about time he got serious about his life and his choices. He was certainly old enough. By this point in his life, Mitchum was on his way to graduation. He was already writing for one of the family papers. He was already living with…

Well... he had already finished sowing his wild oats.

In some other fantasy world where his wife wasn't completely insane and his father wasn't an angry megalomaniac hellbent on controlling the lives of every single one of his progeny, this would be news worth celebrating. Logan had managed to convince a smart and capable young woman to be in a relationship with him. She'd agreed to put up with his bullshit for more than a handful of evenings. She'd convinced him to embrace monogamy. Or at least pretend to. As far as Mitchum was concerned, it was a miracle.

Unfortunately, his wife didn't see it that way.

" _Mitchum," she growled. "You need to do something about this. I am not going to sit quietly by and pretend that_ that girl _has any business marrying into this - "_

" _Good God, Shira! They're not getting married! They just started dating for crying out loud."_

" _You're damn right they're not getting married! You're going to see to that. Tonight."_

Mitchum had only sighed in response. He wasn't very interested in seeing to anything of the sort. Logan was twenty-two years-old. He was technically an adult, though he often didn't act like one, and while Mitchum was perfectly comfortable chiming in with opinions about his partying, drinking, and lack of studying, he was far more hesitant to get involved in his personal life, especially when said personal life was finally beginning to show glimmers of him getting his act together.

There was also the fact that he didn't believe that the development was the grievous omen that his wife seemed to believe it was. He was far more cynical about such matters. It was the boy's first girlfriend. Shira seemed to think that it was some kind of sign that Logan believed this girl was 'the one,' that he'd been waiting all these years to bring home the right girl, that he simply wasn't wasting his time with young women that he didn't see a future with. Mitchum, however, had a far less romantic opinion about his inability to commit.

Letting the situation run its natural course seemed like a much more reasonable response in his mind. If it didn't end by the end of the semester, it would certainly end when Logan got on a plane to London after his graduation. He didn't see the point in getting worked up over nothing.

He threw his Mercedes into park behind his son's car and sat there for a moment, contemplating how he was going to approach evening now that Logan's prolonged presence had thrown a wrench into his plan. Up until now, avoidance had been his key strategy. As soon as he'd gotten off the phone with Shira, he'd planned his evening very deliberately, making sure to find an excuse to stay late at the office, taking the long way home, stopping off an ATM to get some cash that he didn't actually need.

He was taking the cowardly way out, and he wasn't exactly proud of the fact.

Mitchum had always prided himself on his bravery, on his ability to stay calm under pressure, to handle chaos with a cool head. Sure, he was raised in wealth and comfort, but his privilege hadn't made him weak. It had never kept him from being willing to jump into the fray and get his hands dirty. He'd faced down a riotous mob of Iranians in '79 demanding the heads of Americans on sticks with a flash of bright blonde hair hiding under a hat and nothing but a fake Canadian press ID to keep him from harm.

In '85, he'd stood in a crowd of Haitian protestors as authorities opened fire, killing three people. One of them had been standing not twenty feet away from him. He'd seen the blood fly through the air as the bullet lodged itself into the man's flesh, and he remembered vividly the way that his body twisted on the impact before falling to the ground.

He had been in the middle of a breakfast meeting in Lower Manhattan the morning of September 11th, and he'd gotten through the day without so much as a shudder. He'd remained calm as they evacuated the building and then eventually evacuated the island, climbing onto a random tugboat in the Hudson to escape the dust and carnage all around them. Panic hadn't been an option. He was in charge of everyone there with him, not just of their livelihoods and salaries as usual, but of their actual _lives._

As soon as his phone started working again, he started to receive calls from Shira begging him to come home. Honor had called him in tears. Even Logan had called him just to make sure he was still alive. Still, Mitchum had stayed. He stayed in New York, waiting until every single one of his employees was safely taken care of, collecting stories from the people of all walks of life gathered around him in The Battery, from the captain of the boat that had rescued them, from the from the citizens of New Jersey who had offered them water and food as soon as they disembarked, feeling the need to do _something_ as they watched in horror all morning long from their front seat view of Manhattan.

Three days later he'd published his first editorial in about fifteen years, and it wasn't until after the story had been printed and he was sitting safely in the den of his Connecticut home far away from the grizzly scene in New York that the shudder had finally come. 

Suffice to say, Mitchum had faced true danger in his life. He knew what real calamity was. He was practiced in it. He wasn't typically cowed by the prospect of facing it. He didn't shy away from chaos, he usually jumped head first into it. Fearless. That's how people typically described him. According to his father, it was in his genes. Yet, if a certain level of fearlessness and borderline recklessness was a Huntzberger trait, then so was a complete lack of ability to maintain a functional family life.

Mitchum had always been able to handle himself extremely well in extraordinary circumstances, but there was a strange mental block when it came to the mundane dramas of everyday living. He couldn't explain it. Yet, he knew that right now if he had to choose between temporarily trading places with one of his correspondents in Iraq or walking into the house in front him to face the familial dysfunction that awaited him, he would be on a plane to Baghdad in an instant, no questions asked. He would be far more comfortable in a literal warzone. The rules were clearer. The protocols were more straightforward. The threats were more obvious.

Perhaps it was some kind of karmic retribution.

Tonight's dinner was supposed to be a good thing. Honor would finally be announcing her impending marriage, and Mitchum would finally get a reprieve from Shira's endless commentary. Her attention would switch from worrying over why the engagement hadn't happened yet to planning the wedding, and instead of talking his ear off about it, Honor would become the target of her endless ruminations over flower arrangements and catering options.

Yet, as fate would have it, it was all too good to be true. No doubt this was God's or Buddha's or the Universe's way of getting him back for one of his more recent amoral decisions. Perhaps this was the price for bringing Susan Weber to this very house when Shira was away at her most recent spa retreat or for lowballing the Stamford Eagle Gazette.

Whatever the reason, the night had turned from celebratory to disastrous with a single phone call.

" _Don't say a word about any of this until I get home. Do you hear me?" he said. "I will handle this."_

They were supposed to be gone.

He'd timed his entire evening so that he wouldn't arrive until after the two of them had left. Shira would be forced to keep her mouth shut all night, and he would buy himself some time. With time and reflection he would hopefully be able to talk his wife off of the insane ledge she'd put herself on and convince her that Logan bringing a girlfriend home wasn't the sign of the apocalypse she seemed to think it was.

Yet, as luck would have it, Logan wasn't gone. He was still here. His girlfriend was still here, and Mitchum hadn't planned any contingencies for this particular situation.

He took a deep breath and rubbed his thumb and index finger over his brow. He supposed it was time to face the music. He was going to have to go inside eventually, and he didn't feel much like sitting out in his car all evening. It was cold. He needed a drink. And his stomach had been rumbling at the thought of a nice rare steak since the moment he'd left the office.

Mitchum yanked his key out of the ignition and gave one final sigh as the engine and the lights on the dashboard all turned off. He reached over to his passenger seat, sliding his hand through the handle of his briefcase, and opened the door. A burst of winter air hit him as soon as he stepped out of the car, and he shivered as he made his way up the pathway to the door.

As he approached the house, he could see two figures standing in the foyer. On a closer look, he realized that one of them was Logan. He was slipping a bright red coat onto the arms of his companion - his _girlfriend_. As soon as her coat was on, she turned and started talking to him animatedly, her hands gesticulating wildly in the air.

He felt a sinking dread settle in the pit of his stomach, but he shoved his worry aside and made sure to keep his tone light and cheery for the sake of their guest.

"Logan! Perfect," he greeted with a smile while he threw his coat and briefcase on the table next to the door. "Did they start dinner? And is it some sort of precious fish dish? Because I'm dying for a steak."

Logan didn't look to be very interested in answering him, at least in the verbal sense. The scowl on his face was communication enough. Mitchum's dread grew, but he carried on with the pleasantries undeterred.

"You're Rory, I assume?" he asked, switching his attention from the angry face of his son to the bewildered young woman standing next to him. "Heard a lot about you."

Of course, it was more than a mere assumption. He knew exactly who the young woman standing in front of him was. She'd occupied far more space in his mind over the past few months than he cared to admit, and if that wasn't enough he'd also spent the morning listening to his wife endlessly carry on about how she wasn't good enough to marry into their family.

However, Mitchum couldn't help but think that it would be entirely inappropriate to let the girl know the extent of his familiarity with her. After all, they hadn't actually met. As far as she was concerned, he'd never laid eyes on her before in his life. The look on her face was uncomfortable enough, and he didn't need to risk adding to that discomfort and making a precarious situation worse than it already was.

Mitchum held out a hand to her, and she managed to pull together the wherewithal to respond with a handshake. It was a bit limp and half-hearted. Though, he decided to suspend judgement on that front at the current moment. She was clearly disoriented. Confusion and distress were written plainly across her otherwise pretty face. Her striking blue eyes were cloudy, and her lips were turned down in an expression balancing somewhere in between pensive and frownful.

"We're leaving."

Logan's interjection was sharp and uncompromising. The murderous look on his face had actually grown after Mitchum had introduced himself, and the edge in his voice combined with the way he'd practically wedged his way in between the two of them conveyed a certain level of protectiveness that Mitchum had rarely seen from him. He would almost be impressed if it wasn't so worrisome.

It was more than clear at this point that Mitchum's half-assed plan to avoid any unpleasantness this evening had completely and utterly failed. Still, there wasn't any yelling sounding through the halls. There were no tears on the girl's face. And, he hadn't heard any curses slip from his son's lips, so there was a possibility that the evening could still somehow be salvaged. All he needed to do was figure out exactly what level damage had been done.

"What? Why?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"You know why."

Logan responded to him with a terse nod. His jaw was clenched in anger, and his gaze was piercing. His expression sent a clear message, one that didn't require any words. It also sent him a painful reminder. Mitchum liked to believe that he knew Logan better than most people, but he often forgot that the same could be said for his son. The boy had always been able to see right through him. He was rarely fooled by pleasantries or double talk. He was smart. He was perceptive. And he was hardly naive. Sometimes, in his anger and frustration with the kid, he tended to forget.

Mitchum took a deep breath. He felt the smile he'd forced onto his face begin to slip and his resolve start to crumble.

"Had a long day, Logan. Don't want to play games. Is dinner over?"

"No," said Logan, lifting his hand to gesture in the direction of the dining room. "The Huntzberger family shanghai is over. Dinner, however, is still going on."

"O-Okay. Okay…" Mitchum responded. He held a hand up to his son as if trying to calm his temper and keep him from running out the door, while he rapidly tried to formulate a new game plan. "What happened? Uh - "

Mitchum started walking toward the dining room. Yet, as the unmistakable stench of cigarette smoke wafted into his nostrils, he realized that there was no point in trying to keep Logan from leaving. He closed his eyes and sighed, resigning himself to the fact that the situation was beyond repair.

"Oh no…" he said with a sigh. "Why is your mother smoking?"

"We have to go," Logan said as he started backing toward the door, his arms spread out at his sides almost as if he was daring Mitchum to even try and ask him to stay. "I'm sure they'll fill you in on everything."

Logan turned and walked out the door without so much as another glance behind him, but Rory - his _girlfriend_ \- remained for a moment. Before following Logan outside, she doubled back to look at him. She gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement and opened her mouth to politely finish the introduction that Logan had so quickly interrupted just moments ago.

"It was… nice… to meet you."

The look on the poor girl's face didn't match her sentiment. She looked thoroughly stunned, so stunned that Mitchum was actually impressed that she'd managed to find any words at all. He himself was coming up a bit short. He merely nodded in response and watched as she followed Logan out the door and closed it behind her, leaving him alone in the foyer to gather his thoughts.

He turned to look in the direction of the dining room where the rest of his family was assembled, and he stood there for a moment, trying to quell the anger that was bubbling in his chest. Unfortunately, he wasn't finding much success. With every breath, he could smell the smoke drifting from his wife's lit cigarette and his ire intensified. After about ten seconds, he reached a boiling point.

"Shira!" he bellowed before storming through the open doorway between the foyer and the hall that led to the dining room.

A head of long blonde hair popped out from around the light blue curtains hanging in the doorway to the dining room. A momentary look of concern fell over her face as she realized that he was home, but it was quickly replaced with a seething grimace. She stepped out into the hall and put her cigarette out in a crystal ashtray sitting on the accent table against the wall.

"Well look who finally decided to grace us with his presence."

"What the hell happened?" he asked, deciding to ignore the angry cliche that had just poured out of his wife's mouth.

"Where have you _been?_ " she volleyed back while she waved her hand around in the air in a futile attempt to disperse the cloud of smoke that was hanging over her head. "You were supposed to be home _hours_ ago!"

"You know where I've been," Mitchum dismissed. "I was caught up at the office. I told you that."

Shira scoffed.

"How convenient," she replied with a sneer.

Mitchum could feel his blood pressure rising. He didn't like the implication behind her words, and even more so, he didn't like the fact that she was _right._

"I thought I told you not to say a word about this until I got home," he said, taking an intimidating step closer to her.

It had been two weeks since they'd stood in this house and screamed at each other. To most it might seem like an inconsequential amount of time, but for the two of them it was actually quite an achievement.

Passion had always been at the forefront of his relationship with Shira. In the beginning, they'd both thought it was a good thing. He was a broken hearted man, desperate to move on with his life, and when Shira had walked into it the passion reminded him of what it was like to feel. It manifested itself in infatuation and incredible sex. Yet, as the years went on, the infatuation turned to resentment and the lust turned to anger.

These days, the only emotion Shira was able to rile within him was anger. Every other part of him was entirely numb to her. He'd long ago traded his desire for happiness with contentment, joy for peace, love for amiability. The good days were the boring ones, but unfortunately this was not one of those days.

"Please," she responded with a sardonic laugh. "Were you even planning on coming home for dinner at all? I heard that Mike and Susan Weber just got home from Aspen. I figured you might have found a more pleasant way to spend your evening. I'm sorry if my asking you to live up to your responsibilities to this family pulled you away from a sure thing."

His heart rate started to climb at the accusation. He thought he'd done a better job at hiding that particular dalliance, but apparently he'd been wrong. Still, he wasn't about to give in to her attempts to derail the subject.

"We just bought a new paper, Shira," Mitchum seethed. "I know this might be difficult for you to understand since you've never worked a Goddamn day in your life, but there's a lot of work that comes with bringing on a new acquisition."

"Don't lie to me," she bit. "You didn't want to be here. You just wanted to avoid this dinner, and you did everything in your power to make damn sure you did."

"What did you say to her?" he asked, avoiding the bait once again.

Shira would do everything in her power to somehow change the subject to his failures as a father and a husband in an effort to avoid talking about the real issue. She may have been right about him avoiding the evening, but that didn't change the fact that _she_ was the reason their son had stormed out of the house with a murderous glint in his eye and a wounded looking young lady on his arm.

"I didn't say anything to her," Shira replied, unblinking.

They were playing a game of semantics now, one that Mitchum wasn't at all interested in playing.

"What did you say _in front_ of her?" he rephrased.

Her response didn't come as quickly this time. She clenched her jaw and took a deep breath. A moment of silence passed between them as Shira chose to take a step closer to him and fixed him with a hard stare.

"I only said what needed to be said," she replied, her chin held high. "What _you_ would have been here to say if you gave a damn about anyone in this family other than yourself!"

"Shira…" he began, taking a deep breath to compose himself.

With that statement, the worst of his fears had been confirmed, and yet what made him angriest wasn't the fact that his wife had gone out of her way to make a mess of the evening, but rather that she didn't seem to have any remorse or regret after the fact.

It was easy for Shira to hold her head high and claim that she did the right thing in this scenario. She wasn't the one who was going to have to deal with the aftermath. She wasn't the one who was going to have to talk Logan off the edge. She wasn't the one who was going to have to handle the inevitable confrontation with Richard Gilmore. She wasn't the one who was going to have to figure out a way to fix this.

That would be left up to him.

"I swear to God…" he continued.

But he wasn't able to complete his thought.

A booming voice suddenly sounded from the dining room, capturing his attention and devastating what little control he'd been able to hold over his blood pressure. The color drained from his face, and he could feel the tension settle in across his shoulders and jaw.

"Mitchum!" the voice called, cutting over the argument that he was having with his wife with a powerful intensity.

"What the hell is my father doing here?" Mitchum growled.

He made a conscious effort to lower his volume for the first time since he'd walked through the door, realizing that someone else was privy to the conversation they were having. Shira, however, was unable to answer his question as she was interrupted once again by the sound of Elias calling out to him from the other room.

"Mitchum!"

The call was more urgent this time. Mitchum took a deep breath. He maneuvered his way around Shira and took a deep breath. As he walked, he attempted to roll the tension out of his shoulders, and he cracked his neck with a quick twitch of his head. The attempts were made in vain.

His father was not supposed to be here.

When his daughter had called to request this dinner, she hadn't made any mention of inviting her grandfather, and Mitchum certainly hadn't requested his presence. The only explanation was that his wife must have invited him, and the mere idea that she had gone behind his back to recruit an ally for her ridiculous crusade was making his blood boil.

The moment he turned to the left and walked through the entryway into the dining room, Mitchum's eyes landed on the sight of his father sitting at the head of _his_ table. That image alone was enough to make him want to punch a hole through the wall, and the dissatisfied look on the old man's face didn't help to quell the urge either.

"Pop…" Mitchum greeted with a strained voice and a tight jaw. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Elias looked entirely unfazed by the clear anger written all over Mitchum's face. He lifted his drink up to his lips and took a sip, choosing to leave Mitchum in wait for a response. He swallowed and sat back in his chair, fixing him with a smug expression.

"It seems your wife called me here to do what you've failed to do yourself."

Mitchum was momentarily blown away by the sheer audacity of the man. He was sitting under _his_ roof, in _his_ chair, trying to lord over the lives of _his_ family. Elias Huntzberger had spent Mitchum's entire youth stomping over any sense of agency he had. He wasn't about to let it continue into his fifties, and he wasn't about to let Elias believe that he had any input in the way that he chose to raise _his_ children.

"Excuse me?" Mitchum challenged, his eyes narrowing.

"Don't play dumb with me, Mitchum," his father responded. "That boy is out of control, and you know it."

Mitchum's nostrils flared as he tried to regulate his breath. He thought that he'd already reached the peak of his anger, but apparently he was wrong. A brand new rush of displeasure settled over him along with a strange new feeling balancing somewhere in between defensiveness and protectiveness.

"I don't remember asking for your input on how I choose to raise _my_ son," he said. His father, however, carried on unbothered.

"You're too soft on him."

An extremely unattractive sound rose reflexively from Mitchum's throat. It was half scoff, half laugh, and he did his best to swallow it as soon as he felt his vocal cords vibrate. In the end, however, he wasn't successful.

The idea that he was too soft on Logan was laughable. The two of them were at each other's throats constantly. The boy practically hated him, and if his father had any idea of what their relationship actually looked like behind closed doors, he would see how incredibly absurd that particular accusation really was.

"You should have sent him to military school after that incident at Rivers. You should have let him spend a few nights in juvy. Then he might have learned that his actions have consequences a long time ago."

Mitchum shook his head as he forced himself to bite his tongue. There was no use getting into this argument all over again. They'd had it plenty of times over the course of Logan's high school career. Elias thought that he knew everything he needed to know about Logan's rebellious teenage years. He thought his behavior could be chalked up to nothing more than innate tendency toward delinquency and complete lack of consideration for actual consequences. He thought Logan behaved the way that he did because he was reckless and stupid, and he knew that at the end of the day nothing bad would actually happen to him.

Mitchum, however, knew better.

Logan's behavior was far more nuanced than Elias liked to believe. His father liked to see everything in black and white. He liked to find simple answers to everything, even when no such answers existed. Logan was an unhappy kid. He was trapped in a house with two parents that could hardly stand each other, with a mother who spent more time at spa retreats and ski lodges than she did at home and a father who practically lived in New York City while he had his mail addressed to Hartford. The moment Honor had gone off to college, Logan was all but forgotten about, and he'd become desperate to remind them that he existed.

Mitchum had regrets about the way that he'd handled that period in his son's life, but being too _soft_ on him was not one of them. He should have been there more.

"You should have been here, Mitchum," Elias continued, strangely echoing the sentiment going through his head. "You should have been here the moment your wife told you that your wild _reprobate_ of a son - "

"Hey!"

"- was bringing that _scandal_ into this house."

"This is _my_ house, Dad. _Mine,"_ Mitchum sneered. "I will choose what goes on under this roof, and I will choose who _my_ children are allowed to bring into it. You have no right to sit here at _my_ table and lecture me about how I choose to run _my_ family."

"I wouldn't have to tell you how to run your family if you were at all capable of doing it yourself," the old man countered. He placed his hands on the table in front of him and started to slowly rise from his chair. "As it is, I have yet to see any evidence of that fact."

Silence settled over them for a moment as Mitchum tried to keep himself from saying something that he would regret. His father was old. He was in poor health. His shows of power were nothing more than exactly that. Shows. Performances. He tried to cool himself down and remind himself that getting into an argument with the man in the middle of dinner was an entirely fruitless and meaningless endeavor. It wouldn't have any effect on how the situation unfolded. It would only have an effect on his blood pressure.

Unfortunately, his father didn't seem to have the same opinion.

"This is an important family, Mitchum!" he continued, choosing instead to take advantage of the silence that had been presented to him. "There are standards that need to be met. Protocols that need to be followed. I thought you'd learned that by now. That you'd learned that lesson _years_ ago."

A heaviness settled in his gut. The air in the room thinned and his chest seemed to tighten. He'd heard these words before. Too many times to count.

"Don't you dare…" he said.

He couldn't believe that his father would go there, that he would reopen that wound after over twenty-five years. Though, perhaps he should have known better. Elias had no problem at all ripping open old wounds in an effort to get what he wanted. It was the perfect way to create an exploitable weakness in his opponent, and he was ashamed to admit it was working.

"That girl has no business in this family, Mitchum," Elias continued.

Mitchum closed his eyes, trying in vain to somehow hide from the monologue that he knew was coming. It was too raw. It had been over twenty-five years, but it was still too raw.

"She has no idea the kind of responsibility that this name carries!" he said.

The words pouring out of his father's mouth were mixing with the memories in his head, creating a strange and reverberating echo in his mind. He could almost see the hairs on his father's head regaining color and his body slimming down in front of his very eyes. He could see his mother and his siblings sitting around the table, looking awkwardly into their napkins as they screamed at each other with no end.

"What is he going to do when her career becomes more important…"

". _..than yours. When her studies take her halfway across the country?! What are you going to do when she puts off having children to get through med school? Through her residency? Her Fellowship! You have an obligation to this family, Mitchum! Are you just going to stand to the side and let her needs take precedence over yours? Over the needs of this_ family of _this_ company _?! You are going to be taking over this company, Mitchum! That's what you are going to be doing. You need to find a woman who understands the level of sacrifice that entails. Who will put your career and your needs before her own. That's what..."_

"...he needs. Someone who understands that marrying into this family is a career in and of itself! Someone who is ready to have his children, to give birth to this family's next heir - "

"Dad…"

" _That's_ where his priorities should be. Not with some two bit Gloria Steinem whose delinquent mother raised her with a warped sense of - "

"ENOUGH!"

Mitchum wasn't sure if it was the volume and intensity in his voice that had gotten his father to stop, or if it was the sound from the clanking dishes that echoed through the room as his fist collided with the dinner table. Either way, he'd finally succeeded in getting Elias to stop talking.

"Logan is _my_ son," he said. His cadence was slow and deliberate, and he had lowered the volume of his voice to a gentle hum. "I will decide what his needs are and where his priorities should lie. I will decide when I need to get involved with his life and his choices. And if my twenty-two-year-old son decides that he wants to bring his girlfriend over to this house for dinner, then that is my business. Not yours."

"Mitchum - "

"You've made your point perfectly clear, Pop," he interrupted. "So if you don't mind, it's getting late, and it might be a good idea for you to head home."

"We're not finished talking about this, Mitchum -"

"Get out of my house."

Silence fell over the room as Elias stood where he was and stared Mitchum down for a few moments. It was only broken when the sound of his chair scraping across the floor echoed through the room and he backed away from the table. The murderous glare he was giving Mitchum as he walked past him almost rivaled the expression on Logan's face just a few moments ago, but Mitchum didn't flinch. He held his ground, his jaw firm and his brow furrowed as his father walked out of the room.

Elias started making his way purposefully down the hall. All that could be heard was the sound of his footsteps and his angry voice as he yelled at Shira to bring him his coat. Once he was gone, Mitchum started moving to reclaim his seat at the head of the table. He sat down and allowed himself to bask in a certain level of smugness. Even in middle age, it wasn't often that he gained the upper hand in an argument with his father. Having the home field advantage certainly helped, but he would take his victories where he could get them.

His revelry only came to an end when the sound of a throat clearing to his left caught his attention. His head snapped to the side, and somehow for the first time he noticed the figures of his daughter and her boyfriend of three years sitting silently and awkwardly at the table. Their hands were folded in their laps, and their eyes were cast downward.

"Josh and I are getting married," Honor eventually squeaked.

Mitchum was overcome with a rush of sympathy and shame. He was reminded, yet again, that this night was supposed to be about her. It wasn't the first time that the girl's life and happiness had been overshadowed by her brother's, and he hesitated to assume that it would be the last.

Josh, in a rare moment of something akin to bravery, actually lifted his gaze up from his dinner plate and flashed him an awkward smile through pursed lips. He looked completely horrified at the events he'd just witnessed, but Mitchum didn't particularly feel sorry for him. As far as he was concerned, the boy should probably get used to it.

He picked up the glass of scotch that his father had left behind and smirked at the boy as he held it in the air. Then, with a flourish of his hand, he tipped it in his direction and spoke a simple platitude before taking a swig.

"Welcome to the family."

* * *

TBC….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. There it is. This was a tough one to write, and not just because of all the distractions I mentioned in my first note. I hope you all liked it. I will be working on the next chapter of BLP next, and I hope to get that up soon.
> 
> Thanks again!


	4. The Eggnog

**The Eggnog**

Depending on who was asked, Mitchum Huntzberger could be described in a variety of ways. Some might call him charming and convivial, game for a laugh, a good time. More, however, would probably describe him as 'a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old sinner. Hard and sharp as flint, secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster.'

It was perhaps a somewhat amusing irony, therefore, that Mitchum truly loved Christmas.

It had always been his favorite holiday. As trite and cliche as it was, there simply wasn't a single time of year that could hold a candle to it.

He was pretty sure it was his mother's doing. She had always been an enthusiastic fan of the holiday herself, and she had never spared a single expense when it came to transforming their otherwise cold, dark, and vast mansion into a sprawling winter wonderland. Once a year, the menacing halls of his childhood home would become alight with glittering candelabras and bright poinsettias. The dark walnut banisters would be wrapped in lush green garlands with golden ribbons and crystal baubles. And nearly every communal room in the house would be lit with the soft twinkling glow of Christmas lights wrapped around trees of all different shapes and sizes.

To Mitchum, Christmas was the one time of year that he associated with warmth. The frigid New England air outside the windows had never been enough to change that.

He loved the food: the warm honey baked ham right out of the oven with roasted potatoes and steamy buttery rolls. He loved the drinks: the mulled wine, his grandfather's eggnog, the thirty year bottle of Lavagulin his brother bought for him without fail every year. He even loved the music.

Most of the time.

"What the hell is this shit? What is he playing?"

The grip his wife was holding on his arm tightened as she tried her best to maintain the smile that had been permanently stitched on her face since the moment the guests had started to file into their home. The ambient sound of jazz piano had been echoing through the marbled walls of the foyer for hours, and up until this moment he had actually been finding the evening somewhat pleasant.

"Mitchum, please…" Shira muttered through clenched teeth before lifting a glass of red wine to her lips.

"In what world is this a Christmas song?" he continued, ignoring her obvious displeasure at his complaint. "Please explain it to me. I've never been able to understand."

"Mitchum…"

"Is it because there's _one line_ about packages wrapped up in strings?" he continued. "Or because there's a vague mention of snowflakes?"

"I think there are quite a few references to snow and winter, actually," Shira replied with a sigh.

"Didn't you tell him that I _hate_ this song?" he asked. "How much money am I paying this man to have him drive me to insanity in my own house?"

Shira didn't seem all that interested in humoring his diatribe. She merely nudged him in a silent plea for him to shut up as they were approached by the Abbotts. Claire Abbott was one of Shira's oldest "friends" in Hartford, a fellow freshman in The Junior League of 1979. She'd been a ubiquitous presence in Mitchum's life ever sense, helped in part by the fact that their oldest daughter, Claudia -or Claude as she liked to be called for reasons beyond his comprehension - was midway in age between Honor and Logan. As soon as the girl had been born they'd become inseparable. Honor and Claudia had become inseparable. Mitchum found both of them irritating and shrill.

"Maybe next he'll start playing Do Re Mi and we can all join together for some kind of inane singalong."

"Stop," Shira growled.

"I need a drink."

As the couple drew nearer, Mitchum started scanning the room to determine the quickest method for getting some booze in his hand. Christmas may well have been Mitchum's favorite holiday, but it was always made better with a drink resting firmly in his hand.

The bar area they had set up by the piano was pretty crowded at the moment, and he wasn't all that interested in grabbing one of the cranberry champagne concoctions that the waitstaff was handing out on silver platters. At this point, he was starting to think that the best plan of action would be to simply walk to the kitchen and pour himself a finger of his own scotch.

Starting in that direction, he took a step to the left. He walked around the massive Christmas tree beneath the domed stained glass ceiling in the center of the room and forged a path to the Balvenie waiting for him in his liquor cabinet.

The noise of the crowd and the sound of the piano dwindled as he approached the kitchen, and when he stepped through the swinging door it all but vanished. It was replaced, however, with the humming of an open refrigerator and the clanking of various jars, bottles, and containers as someone went rooting through it. Someone who was definitely _not_ a member of the waitstaff.

He recognized the head of blond hair and medium build of his current companion without needing to see his face. It wasn't the first time he'd seen him this evening. He'd noticed him milling about here and there all evening, mingling and schmoozing as best he could. He'd also noticed that this was the second occasion in the past three weeks where he'd shown up here conspicuously alone.

"Stag again?"

Mitchum watched Logan's shoulders and upper back physically tighten in response to his question. He turned around slowly, exposing a look of utter disdain across his face. It was a look that Mitchum was extremely familiar with, especially lately.

Logan had barely spoken to him over the past six months. Their relationship had never been a particularly chatty one, but more often than not they were at least able to communicate in a rational and even tempered manner. Recently, however, it seemed that his son couldn't even look at him without spiraling into a fit of rage. The fights they'd had over the last six months were some of the worst they'd ever had in the twenty-three years Logan had been on this planet.

"It would appear so," his son finally responded.

He closed the refrigerator door behind him and placed a cold pitcher of his grandfather's eggnog onto the granite counter top of the kitchen island. The surface was mostly taken up with trays of hors d'oeuvres ready to be passed out to the throngs of people outside, and just as the words had slipped from his son's lips, a young man with black hair and a goatee walked in through the doorway and awkwardly between them as he grabbed one.

"Is that okay with you? Or should I have run that decision by the board before I showed up? I know they have a lot of opinions about the way I choose to live my life."

The poor young waiter couldn't get out of there quickly enough. He set the empty tray down and hustled back out the door as quickly as his feet could carry him.

Mitchum stayed quiet for a moment as he contemplated the most appropriate response to that comment. He was well aware of the not-so-subtle meaning of the snide remark. It was no doubt a sarcastic dig at the London situation, but considering that it was the night of their annual Christmas Party and hundreds of guests were currently milling about their home, he wasn't particularly interested in getting into a fight at the moment.

He decided to let the remark pass, and rather than taking the bait, he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

"I was just surprised to see that you didn't bring your girlfriend tonight. That's all."

The look on Logan's face grew even more contemptuous, an accomplishment that he honestly didn't believe possible until this very moment. He realized on reflection that bringing up the subject of Logan's paramour was probably not the best way to avoid a confrontation. Logan's ill conceived hostility toward him over the past few months was rooted just as deeply in the unfortunate business at The Stamford Eagle Gazette as it was in Mitchum's crackdown on his scholastic and professional performance. He would have to be a fool not to understand that. Mitchum was a great many things, but a fool was not one of them.

There was also a certain level of intrigue laced into the statement, a little bit of prying. He hadn't heard the slightest mention of the girl since Logan had returned home from the disastrous trip to Omaha last month. He'd let her absence at Thanksgiving slide without so much as a raised eyebrow at first, figuring she probably had plans with her own family. Yet, when Logan and Honor started arguing through hushed tones in dark corners over the course of the day, he started to suspect that something was going on.

"I don't have a girlfriend," Logan replied, harshly. He turned around and grabbed two crystal glasses from the china cabinet behind them and set them firmly on the surface of the counter, a sharp clank sounding at the contact. "We broke up."

Mitchum cleared his throat and looked down at his feet for a moment. He wasn't all that surprised to hear the news. Even if his suspicions hadn't been raised just a few weeks ago, he'd never truly thought the experiment would last very long. Still, he wasn't entirely sure what to say. These were the kind of moments that utterly perplexed him as a father.

"I'm sorry to hear that," was the platitude he landed on. His tone was stiff and awkward, and the lack of emotion expressed in his statement of sympathy wasn't something that seemed to be endearing to his son. Logan scoffed in response and started walking to the other side of the kitchen toward the liquor cabinet.

"Please," he said as he went. "I know you're over the moon about it. So, now that you've cornered me in here and gotten the confirmation you wanted, you can go back out there and tell mom that her Christmas present from me came early this year..."

"I'm not _over the moon_ about it."

Logan didn't respond verbally to his assertion. He merely sent him a withering look before disappearing into the liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of Woodford Reserve and Remy Martin.

"I'm not!" Mitchum defended. "She's a nice girl. I'm sorry it didn't work out."

The solid cherry oak cabinet door let out a loud crack as Logan slammed it closed with his foot. He stood there glaring at him for a moment in silence, frozen, with an incredulous expression. The two bottles of booze were hanging in his fists.

"There's eggnog out there, you know. Though, it's not very good - "

"Do you think I'm an idiot?"

Mitchum sighed. Maybe it was the booze or simply the holiday haze, but clearly his brain had gone fuzzy. He should have known when he found his son into the kitchen that whatever conversation he started would end in a fight. There was no avoiding it. Their problems weren't going to come to a pause simply because it was Christmas. The idea was nothing more than wishful thinking.

"I mean, I know you think I'm lazy and reckless and irresponsible and just a massive disappointment in general. But do you really think I'm _stupid_?"

"Logan…"

"Are you really going to stand there and tell me that you're 'sorry' that we broke up and you think she's a 'nice girl' when you went out of your way to destroy her self-esteem?"

"I didn't go 'out of my way to destroy her self-esteem,'" Mitchum dismissed with an aggrieved groan. "I gave her a performance review! I was her boss. She was my employee. That's how these things work."

"Oh my God…" Logan muttered under his breath.

He started shaking his head in disbelief and walked over to the counter where he'd left the nog and the glasses. The annoyance in his tone was clear as day, and it was painfully certain that Logan didn't believe his assertion at all. He bristled at the realization, and he could feel his defenses starting to rise at the insinuation that Mitchum's intentions behind what happened with Rory were anything other than professional. That he'd purposefully broken the girl's heart just to get at him or to plant seeds of distrust and resentment in their relationship. He only offered her that internship to _help_ their relationship. To apologize for the way that his family had behaved that day. It wasn't his fault that she wasn't able to rise to the occasion.

He supposed it served him right for trying to get involved even in the slightest of ways.

"I don't give special treatment, Logan," Mitchum growled. "When I hire someone and they aren't up to the task, I tell them. I don't pussy foot around. I wasn't going to pat her on the head and tell her she's the next Nellie Bly just because she was screwing my son!"

"No, you save that kind of treatment for the people that are screwing you."

Mitchum was suddenly overcome with a white hot rage. 

He turned around for a moment to make sure that there wasn't any staff about to walk into the door. Then, noting that the coast was clear, he took a menacing step forward. The older Logan got, the more daring he became when it came to testing the limits and boundaries between them. He pushed every button he could reach and teetered on the edge of the line like a hire wire act. Most of the time, he was highly skilled at not crossing it. But, sometimes, he went too far.

"Let's get a few things clear right now..." he said through bared teeth.

He held a menacing finger in the air between them in a Harrison Fordesque gesture of hostility and slowly moved closer to him as his voice dropped in volume and timbre.

"First of all, whether you like it or not, I am your _father._ And you don't talk to me like that. Anywhere. Let alone in my own house. Ever. Do you hear me?"

Logan was sensible enough not to come up with a smart reply. He didn't respond at all. He merely locked his jaw in unaired frustration and anger and turned his attention back to the drinks he was mixing.

"Secondly, you can think whatever you want to think about me and my relationship with your mother and anyone else. But don't you _ever_ for one _second_ think that my personal life keeps me from running my business the way it needs to be run. I don't shit where I eat. And I don't trade favors for sex. My employees succeed or fail on their own merits. That's it."

A scoff rose from his son's throat, and it took everything within him not to completely lose his temper. He wasn't sure what he had ever done to make Logan believe that what he was saying wasn't true, but it was yet another example of complete lack of understanding that Logan had about his business and the way that it actually functioned.

"You couldn't stand the fact that there was a part of my life that you couldn't control, so you did everything in your power to try and sabotage it. You gave her that internship so that you could cut her off at the knees and use the fallout to manipulate me," said Logan. "So congratulations. You succeeded. She blames me for everything that's happened to her over the last few months, and she hates me for it. Your plan worked. Merry Christmas."

It took all of Mitchum's self-control to restrain the eye roll and the groan that were bubbling from within him. Logan's penchant for the dramatic was something that he'd inherited from his mother. It was bad enough having to deal with the emotional paranoias of his wife, adding his adult son into the equation was simply too much.

"I know you're twenty-three years old, so as far as you're concerned the world and everything in it revolves around you," said Mitchum. "But, you flatter yourself if you think I care that much about what - or who - you do in your spare time."

"It's all you care about!" Logan burst, loud enough for Mitchum to grow concerned about the volume of his exclamation. At this point, he was fairly certain that the only reason they hadn't been interrupted by any waitstaff or caterers again was due to the carrying sound of their voices. "Your ultimate goal in life is to control everything I say and do! You don't want me to choose my own friends. My own girlfriend. My major. You even don't want me to choose which continent I live on!"

"How do you think the world works, Logan?!" Mitchum yelled, throwing his concerns about volume to the wayside.

Logan didn't have a response ready for that particular question. Though, Mitchum couldn't exactly say he was surprised. The boy was absolutely clueless when it came to the realities of the world.

"No really," he continued as Logan looked down at the counter and started pouring the chilled eggnog into the glasses in front of him. "I want to know. Do you think all those people sitting around you in your Econ classes are going to walk across that stage on their graduation day and be handed a contract for a $500,000 a year salary with benefits and stock options?"

"Unbelievable…" Logan muttered under his breath as he walked back to the fridge and placed the pitcher back inside.

"Yeah, you're damn right it's unbelievable!" Mitchum countered. "It's _unbelievable_ to me that you have absolutely no concept of the amount of privilege you live with every day."

Logan only shook his head in response as he started adding bourbon and cognac to the drinks in front of him. _His_ bourbon and _his_ cognac.

"You're going to London because that's where I need you! That's where this company _needs_ you. It's really as simple as that," Mitchum yelled. "This isn't some conspiracy against you, Logan. This is how life works. You want to reap the benefits of an executive lifestyle?! Then you need to do the work and accept the sacrifices that come with an executive position!

"You don't want the job that's available to you?! Fine! I don't care! I can find someone else to fill it tomorrow! You want to make it on your own?! You want to start off like the rest of your peers in an entry level job and slave away to work yourself up the ladder? Fine! I'll call the landlord for that nice little penthouse apartment you live in and tell him to stop coming to me for rent. I'll have the Porsche dealership start mailing the bills for your car payments to your address! I'll take you off the company health insurance. I'll cancel your credit card.

"Now you have total control. All your options are open. You've got plenty of choices. Is that what you want?!"

The silence was his answer. His son was seething, and Mitchum found himself grateful that there was still a kitchen island between them. Still, the boy said nothing. Not that Mitchum was surprised. Because, despite what Logan thought, he _didn't_ think the kid was stupid. He couldn't say anything in response, because he was at least smart enough to know that Mitchum was _right_.

"Despite what you may think, I don't care about your personal life," he continued. "The only thing I care about is that you live up to the professional obligations you have to this family and this company. You want to go bar hopping on a Saturday night? I don't care. As long as you show up when and where I tell you to ready to work and not drunk. Or high. Or hungover. You want to date the Gilmore girl? You want to marry her? I don't give a shit! But you're going to have to figure out how to balance your professional life and your personal life yourself. And if that means making some serious sacrifices, then that is something that you are just going to have to learn to live with. Because London is happening whether you're in a relationship with someone or not."

"Whatever," said Logan.

He walked back over to the liquor cabinet and put the bottles back on the shelf. On his way back, he grabbed a shaker full of nutmeg out of the spice drawer in the island and started sprinkling it over his drinks.

"None of this matters, anyway," he continued. "She's not my girlfriend anymore. She wants nothing to do with me. I'm over it."

"Clearly."

The look of pain in his son's eyes was almost enough to make Mitchum momentarily feel sorry for him. But, in the end, the anger and frustration that he felt overpowered everything else. He was acutely aware that he was standing in the middle of a moment that required some kind of paternal gesture. A better father would probably offer an expression of sympathy for his son's heartbreak. Or an assurance of love and affection despite the heated words exchanged.

But Mitchum didn't really know how to do that, or how it would be received if he tried.

Instead, he let silence reign over them yet again. Neither he nor Logan said another word. He merely stood there and watched as Logan picked up the glasses on the counter and walked around the island toward the doorway and back to the party.

Mitchum stood there for a moment, taking a few calming breaths and collecting himself after Logan's departure. After a few seconds had passed, he decided that he couldn't spend the rest of the evening hiding away in the kitchen, and he turned on his heel to follow his son's footsteps back to the crowd.

In the process, he almost ran straight into a completely stunned and terrified looking young waitress who had likely been waiting outside awkwardly bearing witness to their conversation for longer than he cared to admit.

"What? You've never fought with your parents before?!"

The girl's eyes snapped to the ground, and she muttered a timid apology as she slid around him and made a beeline for a full tray of blinis. She did everything in her power to avoid eye contact with him as she scurried out of the kitchen, Mitchum fresh on her heels.

The moment he left the kitchen, the sound of mingling roared once again in his ears. The pianist had, by the grace of God, moved on to another song. Yet, when Mitchum heard the familiar refrain of 'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' he sighed once again. He hated this song too. It made him think of a beautiful young woman with red hair in a red dress who would rather live a modest life full of love in St. Louis than an opulent one full of luxury in New York.

Or Connecticut.

Another waiter walked past him with a tray of hors d'oeuvres and distracted him from his momentary descent into melancholy. He grabbed a cranberry brie bite off the tray as he passed and popped it into his mouth. Then, realizing he'd completely forgotten the reason why he'd even gone into the kitchen in the first place, he made his way to the bar.

As he walked, his eyes involuntarily landed on his son once again. He was on the other side of the room, walking toward the place next to the tree where Honor and Josh were talking to Claudia Abbot. All the angst that had been present on his face just moments before had vanished, replaced with a charming smile and a twinkle in his eye.

Claudia looked happy to see him. She placed a half drunk glass of the caterer's eggnog onto the table next to her and accepted the drink Logan was offering her with a grateful smile. When she took a sip, she made a show of indicating her pleasure that seemed a little out of proportion from where he was standing. The eggnog the caterer had provided wasn't that great, but he doubted that the difference in the drinks was that profound. She rolled her eyes in delight and sidled up to him, pressing her hips against his side and her hand against his chest underneath his jacket. Logan's hand landed on the small of her back.

Honor looked less than pleased, and Mitchum didn't blame her. They'd been down this road before. It hadn't been very smooth. And that was _years_ ago, when Logan wasn't trying to keep his head above water while he was drowning in feelings for someone else. He was playing with fire, but after the conversation they just had Mitchum wasn't about to go blow it out. It seemed the only way that Logan was interested in learning anything was getting burned.

So he would let him.

What remained of his jolly mood only dwindled as the evening went on. He wasn't very interested in mingling anymore, and the Christmas cheer all around him that he usually enjoyed was only mocking him by the end of the night.

Shira had picked up on his attitude instantly. Some men, he'd heard, were lucky enough to have married kind and supportive women. Women who could calm their fury and sooth their egos rather than do everything in their power to stoke at the fires of anger that were already raging inside of them. Mitchum, however, was not such a man. And rather than ask him what had gone wrong or offer an understanding ear, his wife was only interested in offering him passive aggressive remarks and sneers of animus.

That was how he ended up in his den after all the guests and staff had left for the evening. She had made it painfully clear that he was not at all welcome in their bed that evening, not that he often was. Or even wanted to be.

Sleep was alluding him anyway. He'd been trying to get some work done, but it had been a fruitless endeavor. He was too distracted - and too boozed up - to give anything that needed to be done the amount of attention that it needed. He eventually gave up and closed his laptop with a loud sigh, deciding instead to take a seat on the plush leather sofa across the room and distract himself with some television. With any luck it would put him to sleep.

With a click of the remote, the television lit up the room with a flickering blue light. In a manner of milliseconds, the image on the screen coalesced into the pale visage of an ethereal looking woman with pale blonde hair dressed in toga like dress. She was sitting next to an old man with snow white hair and thick mutton chops. George C. Scott. He recognized the film instantly. He threw the remote back down on the coffee table and sat back, making himself comfortable.

The man in question looked away from the memory playing in front of him and back toward the ethereal spirit on the left side of the screen.

" _A waste of time, dancing."_

" _You didn't think so then."_

" _There was a reason then…"_

Just as he was getting settled, Mitchum was startled as a loud thump stole his attention from the television. Somewhat concerned, he sat up from the couch and reached for the remote to turn the volume down. The sound of the fiddles playing at Fezziwig's party softened, and the uneven footsteps out in the hall grew far clearer.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was well past one in the morning. Shira was fast asleep, and the help had left. So, an explanation for the noise was escaping him. He stood up and walked to the door, opening it quietly with a gentle turn of the knob before peeking his head out into the hall.

When he turned his head to the right, his eyes landed on a familiar young blonde in a sleeveless red dress standing outside the room that had once belonged to his son. She was bent over next to a hall table standing flush against the wall. On the surface was a bush of pink and white poinsettias and a dim lamp barely illuminating her face. Her hair was disheveled and her dress rumpled. In one hand she held a pair of silver stilettos and in the other she was nursing at her bare toe.

"Claude, what the hell?!" a harsh whisper sounded as the door to Logan's room swung open and the boy in question popped out dressed in a pair of old pajama pants. As soon as he saw her hopping around and wincing in pain, his expression changed. "Are you okay?"

"I stubbed my toe on the table," she explained, apparently too loud for Logan's taste.

"Okay…You have to be quiet!" he said. "My parents are asleep!"

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Claudia hissed back. She started wiggling her toe and tentatively set it back down on the floor, wincing slightly as it made contact.

"Are you sure you're okay to drive?" he asked, placing a hand on her arm to help steady her as she wobbled around.

"I said I was fine. It's dark in here. I'm not drunk!" she answered.

"Okay!" Logan relented.

Once Claudia was confident in her ability to walk without significant pain to her lower extremity, she stepped away from him, moving in the direction of the staircase. Yet, before she was able to slip away, Logan reached out to her. He wrapped his hand around her forearm and pulled her back to him.

"Hey," he said, softly. Claudia let out a sigh but ultimately gave in, letting him press her against him and run his fingers through her messy hair. Her palms glided over his chest and she looked up at him. "I had a good time tonight."

The girl all but melted in his arms, and Mitchum had to suppress a groan. Logan leaned down to kiss her, and in that moment Mitchum realized that he no longer had any interest in standing there. He was beginning to feel like a voyeur, and while he and his son had always been pretty candid about such matters there was a distinct difference between having a conversation about it and witnessing the aftermath of it. He was about to turn around and walk back into the den, but the kiss ended as quickly as it began. And when it did, Logan's eyes flickered open and made contact with him over Claudia's head.

"Everything okay out here? I heard a thump." he said, realizing that he could no longer hide the fact that he was awake and had seen what they were up to. Claudia turned around and her face flushed from embarrassment.

"Mr. Huntzberger…" she said. "I'm sorry I woke you. I… stubbed my toe."

"That's okay, Claudia. I was already up," he replied, dismissing her concerns. He would have done so regardless, but in this particular instance it happened to be true. "Do you need a ride home? We can call a car for you."

"No!" she insisted. "No, I'm fine. Really. I should just… go…"

The mortified young woman slipped away as quickly as she possibly could, leaving Mitchum and Logan standing alone together for the first time since their blowout earlier in the evening. He was still upset. The murderous look on his face was more than enough evidence of that fact. A few moments of tense silence settled between them before Logan decided to break it.

"Is it okay if I sleep here?" he asked in a confrontational tone. "Or do I need to pay a hospitality fee?"

"Logan…" Mitchum sighed. He brought a hand up to his face and started rubbing at the pressure that was developing at the top of his eyes.

"What?" he asked. "I don't want any handouts."

"Go to bed, Logan."

His son didn't need to be told twice. He disappeared behind his bedroom door in a manner that rivaled similar scenes from his adolescence. Mitchum took a deep breath and retreated back into his own room.

As he walked back over to the couch, he couldn't help but reflect on the turn the evening had taken. For some reason, after years of nothing but turmoil and conflict around the holidays, Mitchum still let himself believe that Christmas might actually be nice. In truth, he couldn't remember the last time a Christmas in the Huntzberger house had been nice.

Maybe when the kids were younger. When they still believed in the magic of it. When they weren't all weighed down by their obligations and responsibilities and he and Shira weren't so consistently at each other's throats. He couldn't help but wonder if things could have ever been different. If he had made different choices. If he'd followed a different path. Maybe his Decembers would still look like the ones that his mother had made for him.

But, there was no use thinking about what ifs. They were only fantasies anyway. He had responsibilities. He did what he had to do to earn the life he lived. The sacrifices he'd made were necessary.

Someday, Logan would realize the same thing.

He settled himself back down on the sofa and turned the volume back up on the television. The scene had changed from when he'd left. It was focused now on a young man in a top hat beside a young woman with curly brown hair poking out from beneath a brown bonnet. They were walking along a snowy path next to a lake and a stone bridge in the background behind them.

The young woman was speaking to him, her voice impassioned yet sad. Angry yet resigned. Steadfast yet heartbroken.

" _...would you seek me out and try to win me now, a dowerless girl with nothing but myself to bring to a marriage? You have no answer."_

" _You think I would not?"_

" _Oh, Ebenezer, what a safe and terrible answer, so characteristic of the careful man. Ebenezer, I release you. You are a free man. I let you go with a full heart. May you be happy in the life you have chosen."_

* * *

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mitchum's hatred of My Favorite Things resounds deeply within my soul. The first time I saw that scene and Logan mentioned that specific pet peeve I screamed in relief because I wasn't alone. Lol.
> 
> I know some of you might be a little confused as to why I skipped over the actual episode with the internship. The reason is because, while that is very important for Rory's story, that scene doesn't really have anything to do with Mitchum and Logan. The moments in this fic will focus on Mitchum observing and reacting to Logan and Rory's dynamic together and the way that it affects his relationship with his son. I just didn't think it was relevant. It's far more logical to me for us to see it talked about in a moment like this rather than in time as it happened on the show. I hope that makes sense.
> 
> Lastly, I'm sorry you had to suffer through Logan/Claude. But hey. It's cannon. Blame ASP. Lol.


	5. The Elevator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! First of all, thank you all so much for your reviews! I'm really glad that so many people are responding so positively to this fic.
> 
> I do want to say something at the top here before you guys jump into the next chapter. While reading, please keep in mind that this is written from a limited 3rd person perspective. That means that all of the thoughts in this fic are entirely Mitchum's and they are subject to all of his biases, prejudices, and misconceptions. I only say that because this chapter is essentially entirely about Mitchum defending himself - so it comes across on a surface level as… well… very defensive and apologetic of Mitchum. Don't let that fool or you make you think that I agree with every single thought depicted here. Things are always far more complicated.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoy! I plan to update BLP soon!

**The Elevator**

The day had finally arrived.

It was a day that Mitchum hadn't always been completely sure _would_ arrive, so the fact that it was here was particularly momentous.

His doubts had first been supplanted years ago. It was the incident at Rivers that had first instilled the worrisome sense of foreboding within him. Until that moment, he'd always thought that Logan's problems at school were mostly overreactions to benign misbehaviors. He was kicked out of Groton for sneaking into the girls' dormitory after hours, and to his mind the most unbelievable aspect about the entire situation was the fact that it wasn't an issue that they dealt with far more often. After all, it was an institution housing hundreds of horny adolescents. One would assume they would be kicking kids out left and right.

Then there had been the contraband incident at St. Mark's. They'd found a bottle of Smirnoff stashed under his bed during a dormitory inspection, and the explicit no-tolerance policy they had regarding the use of substances resulted in the faculty reigning down a speedy expulsion. In Mitchum's opinion, the most shocking and appalling thing about that particular offense was the fact that the substance they'd found was _Smirnoff._ He'd thought he's instilled better taste in the kid. It wasn't like he couldn't afford a bottle of Grey Goose.

Rivers was different. Rivers was the first time Mitchum wasn't able to deny the reality of the situation any longer. Rivers had been the first time that police and attorneys had to get involved. Logan had gotten into plenty of trouble leading up to that incident. He spent nearly every Saturday he was there in detention, and at times it seemed like Mitchum was getting phone calls from the headmaster every other day. Talk of expulsion, however, had never even been mentioned.

The moment Mitchum received a call stating that he and his friends had stolen the Dean's car and managed to drive it into a lake, Mitchum was forced to have a come to Jesus moment. It was then that he realized that his son wasn't just up to typical youthful mischief. He'd been actively _trying_ to get expelled, _trying_ to find trouble under every stone he could turn, and he wore his expulsion from one of the most notoriously lenient academic institutions on the eastern seaboard as a badge of honor.

That was the first of many moments where Mitchum wondered if Logan would ever even graduate _high school._ College had been a vast well of uncertainty, not helped by his idiot friends, his endless partying, and the year he took off to sink a yacht halfway around the world. At least when Logan was in high school Mitchum had the advantage. Logan had been a minor. Mitchum was still in total control. Now, things were markedly different.

Now Logan had far more power. Mitchum still held the purse strings, but his son wasn't a minor anymore. He didn't have a faculty of teachers and administrators keeping him abreast of Logan's activities. He didn't live in his house anymore. For the most part, Logan did what he pleased. He was free to get into trouble. Free to blow off class. Free to jump off cliffs and very nearly end his future before it even began.

Yet, somehow, despite years worth of fights and fears, his son had managed to achieve what Mitchum had sometimes worried was unachievable. This afternoon, he had walked across a stage on the Yale campus, shaken the Dean's hand, and accepted a Bachelor of Arts in Economics.

Witnessing the scene had left Mitchum with a strange feeling in his gut. It was a tingly sort of feeling, residing in his chest and hovering somewhere between happiness and fulfillment. It had stayed with him all afternoon, though admittedly the bourbon he had thrown back over the past few hours had probably helped to keep it around.

"What time does your flight leave tomorrow?"

He posed the question just as the elevator doors to Logan's hallway opened in front of them. Logan had been pretty tight lipped since the moment they left the restaurant, and he still didn't look all that interested in talking to him. His son sighed as they stepped into the hallway, and he used the hand that wasn't wrapped around the handle of his cane to rake his fingers through his hair.

"9:50," he answered.

"You'll call me when you land?" asked Mitchum.

"Yeah."

"And you set up a car to pick you up at the airport?"

"Yup."

"And you have the key to your apartment?"

" _Yes."_

At his final - and biting - affirmative reply, Logan came to a sudden stop in the center of the hallway. He was making it abundantly clear that Mitchum was not welcome to come any further and that he didn't appreciate the interrogation, but Mithcum had long ago realized that Logan couldn't always be trusted to dot all of his Is and cross all of his Ts. Sometimes he couldn't even be trusted to write the letters in the first place.

Even so, Mitchum wasn't interested in letting the day's events deteriorate into a fight, especially when his son was about to get on a plane to another country in less than twenty-four hours. As far as days spent with Logan went, this one had been a relatively pleasant one, and he was still feeling the remnants of that strange sensation in his chest. So, he was more than willing to wrap this conversation up on a high note and get out of there before he officially overstayed his welcome.

"Alright, good luck." he said. "Pete Michaels will be there for at least the first two months. You met him in Omaha."

"I remember," Logan replied, his patience dwindling. Yet, despite how obvious it was that he wanted this conversation to be over, these final few details about who Logan needed to talk to on his first day of work were pretty important.

"He runs the department so he's the one to see. He's a good guy. He's got twenty years - "

The ring of his cell phone suddenly cut into the conversation. Mitchum looked down with a sigh, taking note of the name flashing on the caller ID. Seeing that it was Jim Becker, a wave of dread passed over him, effectively running his good mood into the ground. A call from legal this late on a Friday evening was never a good sign.

"I gotta go," he said, grimly.

Logan didn't seem nearly as upset by the fact that he was being pulled away. He all but jumped at the opportunity to get away from him. Bum leg be damned.

"Yeah, I'll talk to you later," he said, quickly. Then, he shook his hand and turned his body toward the direction of his apartment.

Mitchum watched him for a moment, marveling at the speed with which he still managed to run away from him even with his injury. As he flipped his phone open and brought it to his ear, he turned on his heel and started making his way back toward the elevator.

"Yeah?" he answered, pressing the button on the wall in front of him.

"So, I have good news and I have bad news…" chimed the voice of one of Mitchum's most trusted attorneys. He sighed, knowing full well that the call was going to consist primarily of bad news. "Or… I should say, I have bad news… and some mild perspective that makes the bad news not seem quite as bad."

"Get to the point, Jim," Mitchum replied.

"I just got word that the judge denied our anti-slapp motion on the Abramson case."

Mitchum closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn't as if this was his first rodeo with a defamation case. First amendment lawsuits were the hazard of owning a print media business. It was, however, the first case in quite a while that had managed to make it past Connecticut's anti-slapp legislation. And, to add insult to injury, it was the consequence of piss poor reporting from a grade A moron who Mitchum had already fired months ago.

Yet, apparently, his idiocy was still haunting them.

"You always know how to brighten my weekend, Jim," he said, cheekily.

"The good news," Jim continued, undeterred. "Is that - motion dismissed or not - I can't see how the plaintiff is going to be able to prove a standard of actual malice. The case just isn't there. So, I think we'll still come out on top in this. It's just going to be a lot more expensive to get there."

"That's good news?" Mitchum asked.

"Relatively," Jim answered. Mitchum could practically hear the shrug over the phone. "Anyway, I'm about to walk back into a deposition. But, I wanted to keep you updated. I'll call you with more details later. Probably next week."

"I won't be at the office next week," said Mitchum. "I'm heading to Chicago on Monday and then I'm leaving for London on Thursday."

"You want me to call you here?"

"Yeah, at this number," Mitchum confirmed, just as the sound of a ding echoed through the hall and the elevator doors in front of him started to open.

"Alright, talk to you later."

"Yeah. Call me back. Bye."

Mitchum stepped into the elevator as he ended the call. He started scrolling through some text messages that he'd ignored earlier in the day, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the doors coming to a close in front of him. He only looked up from his phone when out of nowhere the blur of another person entering the space whizzed past his vision.

With a quick turn of his head, he realized that a young woman had caught the doors just in time and stepped inside. He almost turned his attention completely back to his phone, but on a double take he realized that his new companion wasn't just any young woman. It was his son's girlfriend.

"Oh…" he said in a tone of surprise. "Hello, Rory."

The girl didn't seem to be in much of a mood to talk to him. She merely acknowledged him with a nod and a tight lipped smile before looking down at the floor. The doors started to close in front of them, trapping in a heavy awkwardness as she continued to look in any direction other than toward him. He observed her cautiously for a moment, wondering whether or not he should continue to speak.

Their last encounter hadn't exactly been pleasant, and it hadn't occurred at a moment in time when Mitchum was feeling particularly clear headed. His son was in a hospital bed, and he was wrestling with the complicated tangle of emotions it was eliciting within him ranging everywhere from the blood boiling anger he felt at how incredibly _stupid_ Logan had been to the terror any parent feels after getting a 2:00 AM phone call stating that one of their children was being airlifted to a hospital and might very well die within the next twenty four hours.

He wasn't proud of the way he'd handled the situation, but at the time he couldn't fathom doing anything else. In his anger and contempt, he'd let himself believe that refusing to walk into that hospital room was sending a clear message that he wasn't going to tolerate this kind of reckless and dangerous behavior any longer. Yet, on receiving the angry - and quite frankly unexpected - phone call from his son's girlfriend, he realized that his reasons for avoiding the situation might be a bit more complicated than he'd originally thought.

There were very few people in Mitchum's life who were brave enough to speak to him in the manner in which Rory Gilmore had on that phone call. Most of them were in his immediate family, and none of them were twenty-two year old college students looking to jump start promising careers in journalism. Suffice to say it was more than he expected from the timid, cautious, and somewhat naive girl that he'd met over a year and a half ago.

She'd surprised him. He might actually go as far as to say that she had forced him to consider whether or not he might have been wrong about her.

"Were you at the ceremony? We didn't see you," he continued, deciding to acknowledge the fact that he was the adult in this situation and not saying anything to his son's girlfriend while trapped in an elevator with her might be considered less than polite. He was also hoping that some pleasantries might set the tone for a non-confrontational exchange.

Rory finally made eye contact with him, though her expression didn't show any newfound desire to strike up a conversation. She nodded again.

"Yeah. I was there," she answered, simply.

It wasn't a lot to go on. Mitchum had been hoping that the question might spark some kind of conversation between them, whether it be about the commencement speaker, or the weather, or the size of the crowd. Anything to make the thirty seconds they would spend in the tiny square cage they were trapped in slightly less awkward. Unfortunately, Rory didn't seem to be interested in humoring him. And this elevator ride was beginning to rival the ride up to The Emperor's throne room in _Return of the Jedi_ in levels of discomfort.

"Ah…" he said while flipping his phone closed and placing it in his breast pocket. "Didn't see you."

"Well, I was there," she said with a forced smile and a slight laugh.

Mitchum chuckled as well at the awkward merry-go-round the conversation had stumbled into, and he felt himself swallow a great gust of air. He was filled with a sense of foreboding, one that came from the experience born of twenty-seven years of marriage and twenty-six years of parenting a girl. There was an unmistakable feeling in the air, one that nearly always accompanied the swinging of a hammer. It was a hammer that was coming directly toward him, and it didn't even take a second before it made swift and abrupt contact.

"Did you know that Logan and I had plans to go out after the ceremony? I mean... Were you aware of that?"

Mitchum maintained a polite smile on his face as he watched the girl spiral into a tizzy. He'd been in this situation far too many times to let it get the better of him. Though, typically, when it was his wife or his daughter going in on him during one of their estrogen induced moods, he was usually the source of their anger. In this particular moment, he couldn't help but wonder why he was the one standing here taking the brunt of his son's relationship squabbles. Logan hadn't mentioned anything to him, and if she was upset that he hadn't been home in time for whatever little plans she'd made, then that seemed like an issue that was entirely Logan's problem.

"No," he answered with a somewhat amused smile. "I was not."

"Yeah…" Rory said with a sarcastic nod. "'Cause why would your son want to go out with his girlfriend the last day before he leaves, right?"

"Rory…" Mitchum responded with a sigh.

He really wasn't in the mood to stand here and get into a fight with a twenty-two year old girl. Yet, with that particular comment, it was becoming clear to him that might be inevitable. Apparently, Rory did see him as the source of her anger. Though, whether or not that actually had anything to do with Logan getting home later than expected remained to be seen. In his mind, it was more likely displaced anger over what had happened at The Gazette.

It was ages ago, but apparently she still hadn't let it go.

"And this gathering of yours, it turns into a business meeting on his graduation day? As if Logan's not going to have enough time for that during the year that you're forcing him to do in London."

"It wasn't exactly a business meeting…" he dismissed. It was drinks. It was a social occasion. Networking. It was another reality of life that Logan - and apparently his girlfriend - seemed reticent to accept was a necessary tool for success.

"Why are you doing this?"

There was a desperation in her tone, a desperation that he hadn't been expecting. He was expecting the anger. He was expecting the sarcasm. But, this was an entirely different display of emotion that he wasn't sure how to respond to.

"Doing what?" he asked.

"Why are you taking him away from me? Why? Do you hate me that much?"

Mitchum was momentarily taken aback. While he had been fairly certain for quite some time that Rory was not _his_ biggest fan, the fact that she was under the impression that he hated her was entirely baffling to him. For the most part, she was a complete non-factor in his life. He didn't give her all that much thought at all, and the small amount of thought he did give her was pretty generous as far as he was concerned.

For the most part he thought she was a smart kid. She was quick witted and capable. She was good at multitasking, at anticipating needs. He was admittedly impressed with the way she'd been speaking her mind to him lately, and he was not blind to the fact that it was partially her influence that had led to him sitting on the Yale campus today to watch his son walk across that stage.

She was one of the best editors that The Daily News had seen in years, better than that Doyle kid by a mile and certainly better than the trainwreck they'd had in there before her with the handshake like Jimmy Breslin's. If one of his editor's had failed to choose a picture for the layout before it went to print, he'd fire them on the spot. Though, Rory's success in that area didn't exactly surprise him. In his opinion, she was much better suited to editing than reporting. It was introspective and analytical work, work that seemed far more in line with her personality.

He wasn't sure what he had done recently to make her think that he didn't like her. As far as he was concerned, he'd gone out of his way to support her in ways that were entirely beyond the scope of his obligation. He'd mentioned her by name in _The Wall Street Journal_. Hell, he'd just renewed a lease and paid this month's rent on an apartment that his son wasn't even going to be living in for a year. For her. Mitchum's own daughter had gotten married, and he'd somehow gone straight from supporting her to supporting his son's girlfriend. She wasn't even his daughter-in-law - at least not yet - and she was already on his bankroll.

"I don't hate you…" he replied with a furrowed brow.

"Yeah, right," Rory said with a sardonic roll of her eyes. She turned away from him, clearly thinking that there was nothing further to debate on the matter. Mitchum disagreed.

"Why would I hate you?" he prodded.

At this point, he was honestly curious about what was going on in the girl's mind. Her tone seemed almost resigned, as if this wasn't an accusation born of an emotional outburst the night before her boyfriend was about to move across the Atlantic, but rather a well thought out and long held belief about the state of his mind.

"Because I'm dating your son," Rory responded, flippantly shrugging her right shoulder as she turned back in his direction.

"Logan's love life is his own business. I don't get involved."

"Oh, please!" she said. "You have done _nothing_ but get involved!"

At this point, Mitchum was getting worked up. He didn't appreciate the accusation. He hadn't appreciated it when it had come from his own son's lips just a few months ago at Christmas, and he didn't appreciate it now coming from his girlfriend.

"How?!" he asked, the frustration in his tone clearly audible.

"You're sending him away. Five thousand miles away. What other reason is there than to separate us?"

It was then that Mitchum finally understood what was happening. He leaned backward, rolling his eyes at the harlequin-romance-like melodrama of it all and lifted a hand to scratch at the pestering itch that had settled on his face just below his sideburns. Though, whether it was an actual itch or just a psychosomatic symptom of the mental frustration he was feeling was anyone's guess.

Rory's little temper tantrum didn't actually have anything to do with him or anything to do with any tangible actions that he'd taken over the almost two years she'd been in a relationship with Logan. This was entirely about his wife. And his father. And the damn mess they'd made at that dinner.

The elevator doors started to open as they reached the ground floor, and Mitchum took the final opportunity to get some words in to relay to her the same exact sentiment that he'd relayed to his son at Christmas.

"Well… you flatter yourself if you think I put that much energy into thinking about your relationship."

"Here's the lobby," Rory responded caustically as she turned away from him toward the opening doors in front of them. It was clear that she didn't believe him, and the idea was getting under his skin more than he would like to admit.

The both of them had no idea what true meddling looked like. True meddling looked like arranging public dates between your son and perfect strangers and splashing their images all over page six, knowing full well that he had a serious girlfriend waiting for him at home. True hatred looked like refusing to let your son's girlfriend into your home for holidays and special occasions and threatening to take away the keys to the house in Montauk if you ever found out that he'd brought her there again. True career sabotage looked like threatening to call contacts at Columbia med and NYU to make sure that your son's girlfriend's applications would be rejected in an effort to split them apart after college.

What it definitely did not look like, however, was offering your son's girlfriend an internship after being mortified over the fact that his family had made inappropriate remarks to her at a family dinner. It didn't look like asking where she was when she didn't show up to Christmas parties and mysteriously ran off at weddings. Or offering to let her and her family stay unsupervised at a house in Martha's Vineyard for as long as they wanted. And it definitely didn't look like a single negative performance review that had already forced him to start eating crow.

Rory seemed to legitimately believe that he was conspiring against her. That for some untold reason, he had decided to switch his precious time and attention away from running the near billion dollar media conglomerate he was responsible for and toward her little college love affair. She thought that he was sending Logan to London in a hastily planned attempt to hurt her, that he'd kept Logan behind today to deliberately slight her.

He hadn't even realized she was waiting at home. In fact, given her perceived absence at the graduation ceremony and the tumultuous on again off again status of their relationship, he couldn't be entirely sure that they hadn't simply broken up again. It's not like Logan went out of his way to keep him updated on much of anything regarding his personal life.

The reality was that Mitchum's plans for his son had nothing to do with her whatsoever. She was a brand new factor in an equation that was twenty-four years in the making, one that had everything to do with making sure his troublesome, over-active, wandering son found a way to live up to the potential that he knew was in there if he would just get out of his own way.

The girl's narcissism was on par with his wife's.

She started to take a step forward and was about to walk out of the open doors when Mitchum suddenly stopped her in her tracks.

"Wait," he said, unwilling to let the conversation end without getting in the final word. "Let's get this clear right now. I'm sending Logan away for one reason. Because it is time. It is time for him to stop jumping out of planes in a gorilla mask and crashing boats and getting plastered every night and ending up in the hospital. It's time for him to stop being a child and to start being a man!"

The elevator doors were starting to close, and Mitchum pressed a finger against the button at the bottom of the panel to keep them open for as long as it took to speak his mind. Rory looked startled by his sudden outburst. Though, Mitchum couldn't be sure if she was shocked at the fact that he'd gotten worked up or if she was shocked by the idea that his decisions were made with nothing but Logan's best interests in mind.

"It's time for him to start focusing on his future, and the only way he's going to do that is to get him out of his environment and away from those dopes Colin and Finn and The Life and Death Brigade and get him on a path."

He sighed.

"Logan is talented. He's talented. He's my son. I want him to achieve something, and he needs a push."

Mitchum paused for a moment. He took a deep breath and attempted to collect himself.

It wasn't entirely easy, especially now that his mind was starting to flicker back to his own memories. The truth was that he recognized the aimlessness in his son. He understood the pressure. The anxiety. The desire to drown his troubles and insecurities in a bottle rather than face them head on. He understood the hope that they might just vanish if he never acknowledged them and simply moved about his life in a permanent state of apathy. The boy wasn't created in a vacuum. He'd inherited more than Mitchum's blond hair and square jaw.

Mitchum's own period of aimlessness was slightly different than Logan's, but it was similar enough. Where Logan's unfounded fears and insecurities inspired a desire to exist in a kind of Peter Pan like state where he never had to grow up and take the responsibility to create his own life, Mitchum's had been inspired by the loss of the life he'd spent his college years trying to create.

The hopelessness that had followed culminated in a period of depression that had almost destroyed him. He'd floated through life, drinking, partying, screwing around with any pair of tits that walked in his direction, hoping desperately that he might be able to find that feeling again with someone - anyone - and failing every time. He was still trying. And he was still failing.

He didn't know where he would be now if his father hadn't decided that he'd seen enough. If he hadn't shoved a pad of paper and a pencil into his hand and forced him on a plane to Bangkok in '77. He had, by the grace of his late birth year, just barely avoided being sent to war in Southeast Asia. Yet, by some strange irony, after all of his peers had finally come home he found himself being called there.

It had been good for him. Reporting on the events unfolding in Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam had shown him what true suffering actually was. It had forced him to put his life in perspective. It had instilled a sense of purpose in him that he hadn't realized was buried somewhere within him. It had made him anxious for his next assignment in Iran that had led to him being shortlisted for the Pulitzer. It had turned him into a man. And as much as he hated his father at the time, looking back he realized that it was exactly what he needed.

Mitchum raised a hand in the air between them as he contemplated whether or not to give voice to his thoughts. Ultimately, he decided to go ahead, allowing Rory a rare glimpse into his own personal life in an effort to get his point across.

"It's what my father did with me. He pushed me. I grew up, and now Logan is going to grow up. Anything here you're not agreeing with?"

Rory was silent.

Though, he hadn't really been expecting any response other than silence.

"I didn't think so," he said.

Satisfied that his point was sufficiently made, Mitchum took a step forward into the lobby, leaving Rory behind with a scolded look on her face. He turned to the right, passed the security desk, and walked briskly toward the exit leading into the parking garage. Then, once he had slipped into his Mercedes, he slumped in his seat and let out a frustrated sigh.

He would probably come to regret this interaction at some point in the future. It probably wasn't going to go very far in repairing the already frayed relationship between his family and his son's girlfriend, and it most definitely wasn't going to endear him to Logan. Still, he couldn't bring himself to feel remorseful at the moment.

Rory was a bright girl, but she was young. Her opinions about his motivations were filtered through a lens of resentment - both that of her own and no doubt that of his son's. He knew that he was the villain in their story, just as his father had been the villain in his, and he knew what that meant. He had experience with that feeling.

He knew that for now, and possibly even for the rest of his life, he would be the scapegoat for his son's unhappiness. But he was okay with that. It wasn't his job to be his son's buddy. It was his job to be his father. It was his job to make sure he lived up to the potential that he knew was in there. It was his job to make sure that Logan's life didn't stagnate before it even began. And, unfortunately, twenty-four years of experience had taught him that Logan learned best from a swift kick in the ass - not a pat on the head. So, he would be the one to provide the foot.

He had other sources to turn to for a pat on the head.

It was becoming increasingly clear to him that Rory truly loved his son, that perhaps he had long ago underestimated the validity of the feelings that had existed between them, that perhaps he had been too quick to write their relationship off as a childish lark. Her affection for him was made clear with every biting remark and impassioned defense she had leveled against him in the past few weeks. He didn't begrudge Logan having someone like her in his life. In fact, he was happy for it. A long dormant and uncomfortably sentimental part of himself might even say that he hoped they would be able to make it work between them. He had experience with that feeling as well.

What he had that they did not, however, was the perspective of time. Time, they would both come to find out, would reveal that love was not the answer to everything. Love was not a reason to put their lives on hold. Love would not help them achieve all that they needed to achieve in their lives. Despite what the movies, and the poets, and the playwrights would have them believe, love was not an instant recipe for happiness and fulfillment. Sometimes, in order to become the person one was meant to be, love had to be sidelined. Or even sacrificed.

Now was not the time for Logan to be making concessions in his life. Now was the time for him - for _both_ of them - to figure out how they fit into the world. If they managed to do that together, the more power to them. But, time and experience made Mitchum painfully aware of the fact that they would most likely not.

He wasn't trying to sabotage them.

He just wasn't going to stand by and watch Logan sabotage himself.

* * *

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't take Mitchum's thoughts here as an omen. Like I said, they are subject to all sorts of misconceptions. Though, we all do know how the show ends. But, if you're worried that this fic will be too sad, I would refer you to the summary of this fic. Also, please don't forget to leave a review! They feed my pathetic artistic need for validation. Lol.


	6. The Box

**The Box**

Over the years, Mitchum had become somewhat desensitized to large sums of money.

Mithcum had been born into an extraordinary amount of wealth, it was a constant and normal presence in his life. For generations, his family had been growing their newspaper empire into one of the largest in the United States, and he had reaped the benefits of that growth for as long as he'd been alive. As Mitchum himself continued to grow the empire even further, the sight of long numbers with strings of zeros following them had become as commonplace and normal to him as the price of milk or bread or a modest meal at a popular restaurant.

When one was the CEO of a near billion dollar media conglomerate, trading large sums of money was routine. Earning large sums of money was even more routine. And spending large sums of money was an unfortunate but necessary part of life.

Losing large sums of money, however, was something else entirely.

The nightmare that his son had wrought upon the company that he had dedicated his life to was plaguing him every day. The already stressful days at the office were made all the more debilitating by the fact that they were now filled with attorneys, depositions, subpoenas, and more meetings than any single individual should ever be forced to sit through in the course of one day.

Mitchum's own personal exhaustion wasn't helped by the fact that the professional hell that he had been living in for weeks was accompanied by a uniquely personal hell. At first, it had been the disappointment and, frankly, the embarrassment that had come from reckoning with the fact that it was his own son who was so blame for the crisis that had befallen them. Then, it was the resentment and anger that came with Logan's complete and utter refusal to man up and face the consequences of his reckless and irresponsible behavior. And now… well now it was the disbelieving rage that had been rolling in and out of him like waves since the moment the boy had walked into his study and oh so _bravely_ informed him that he was leaving it all behind to make it on his own.

Running away was more like it. Leaving his mess permanently in Mitchum's lap with no intention to ever help him clean it up was more like it. Becoming a disgrace to his family name was more like it.

The confrontation had occurred weeks ago, but Mitchum was still feeling the emotions that it had stirred in him as if it was yesterday. Simply being in the room was enough to trigger him into a furious spiral, but he wasn't going to let Logan taint the one room in this house that was unequivocally _his._

Instead, he would drink. He would wash away the smell of the settlement conference he'd just sat through with the smell of Lavugulin and wipe away the memories that he couldn't shake in the process. Yet, just as he lifted the crystal top from the decanter on the shelf next to his desk, he heard the loud sound of the backdoor swinging open, and the sound of fast and heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.

He wasn't sure who it could be. Shira had just left for a Junior League meeting minutes ago, and Maria was in the kitchen making him dinner. Curious - and somewhat concerned - Mitchum plugged the top back into the decanter and started walking toward the doorway of his study toward the hall. Once he reached the doorway, he was met with a sight that did not help to improve his mood.

A familiar head of blond hair was making his way through the hallway. He had a stern look on his face and he was holding a large and empty cardboard box awkwardly in front of him. Mitchum knew that the boy saw him standing there, yet he was stubbornly refusing to make eye contact with him. Instead, he continued walking with a single minded determination, not stopping for anything. Not even to answer the pointed question that Mitchum threw out at him as he walked past him.

"What the hell are you doing here?!"

Logan didn't pause to look behind him. He kept a brisk pace as he walked toward the stairway in the living room, ignoring him entirely. In any other context Mitchum might find the move ballsy. Now, however, it was only making him see red.

The last time Logan had walked out of this house, Mitchum thought he had made it perfectly clear that he wasn't welcome back into it. Logan seemed hellbent on turning his back on everything that was important to this family. He wanted to run away from his problems and leave Mitchum to clean them up for him. He wanted to run away from the future they had been planning for him for twenty-five years. He wanted to walk away from all of the responsibilities and obligations that came with the name Huntzberger.

And if Logan didn't want to be a Huntzberger, Mitchum was prepared to make damn sure that he was no longer a Huntzberger.

"Hey!" he said as he followed after him. "Where the hell do you think you're going?!"

Logan started to ascend the stairs. His determination not to respond to or acknowledge Mitchum in any way was still blatantly clear, but just as Mitchum took another step forward to follow him up the stairs, he finally received some form of reply. It just didn't come from the source he had been expecting.

"Dad, stop."

Mitchum turned around at the sound of the voice, and when his eyes landed on the sight of his daughter standing in the hallway, he only found himself growing even angrier. It was bad enough that Logan didn't have the courage or conviction to face his own problems, but now he was dragging his sister into his mess.

She was standing in front of him with her arms crossed over her light blue cable knit sweater, and she had a steadfast look of resolve on her face, as if she had come here preparing for a fight. It wouldn't be the first time that Logan had recruited his sister to fight his battles for him, but the fact that he was still doing it at twenty-five years old was infuriating to him.

Apparently, Logan really never would grow up. After months of thinking that he had achieved the impossible, that Logan had finally started to live up to his potential, he was met with the crushing reality that he hadn't really changed at all.

"Honor," he said, glowering. "Go home. This doesn't have anything to do with you."

"This has everything to do with me!" she argued. "He's my brother. I love him. And I'm not going to stand to the side while you try to drive him out of this family - "

"I'm not driving anyone out of this family!" Mitchum yelled. "He made that decision all on his own! He's the one who came here saying that he didn't want to be a part of this anymore. He's the one throwing generations of hard work and sacrifice down the drain because he's too selfish to be a part of this family!"

"Most families don't don't decide who's welcome in them based on who's on the company payroll!" Honor responded.

"Well we're not _most families!"_

Honor took a deep breath as the sound of his booming voice echoed through the halls of the house, but to her credit the look of determination on her face didn't falter.

" _Most families_ don't live in a house like this. Most families don't have a yacht, or vacation homes, or private chefs and live in maids. Being a part of this family is a _privilege_ and there are certain trade-offs that come with that privilege. Trade-offs that he's not willing to make. And that's all fine and dandy, but he has another thing coming to him if he thinks that he's going to be able to reap the rewards of being a member of this family after he's turned his back on everything it stands for!"

"I've never had to make any trade-offs to be a part of this family!" said Honor.

"That's different!" Mitchum responded with a roll of his eyes.

"Why?!" she yelled.

He froze momentarily. The look on Honor's face had changed from resolved to a quiet anger. Her arms were still crossed over her chest, but she shifted on her feet. Her eyes narrowed at him and her jaw locked. Mitchum, of course, knew the answer to her question. He also knew that _she_ knew the answer to her question, but saying it out loud seemed like a profoundly bad idea at the moment. It would only serve to worsen the situation.

"Honor…" he pleaded, frustratingly.

"No," she said, her tone clipped and biting. "I want to hear you say it."

A rush of air filled his lungs as he stood there and attempted not to lose his cool. She was baiting him, trying to pick a fight of her own to distract him from the fact that Logan was upstairs doing God knows what with the giant box that he'd brought with him.

"I don't have time for this," he said, turning on his heel and stomping off toward the stairs. Honor was quick on her feet to follow him, and as he started climbing up to the second story, she yelled up at him from the living room.

"You have no right to keep him from taking what's his!" she said. "I won't leave this house until every single item that belongs to him is packed up in my car!"

So that's what this visit was all about. Apparently, in the weeks since Logan had come to him stating that he had no interest in living up to the legacy that he had been born into, he had decided that the massive amount of junk that lay collecting dust in his bedroom for years was suddenly worth having. It would almost seem sentimental if Mitchum didn't know how much money was sitting in that room. As it was, it happened to be filled with binders of rare baseball cards, signed memorabilia, first edition books, antiques, and one-of-a-kind pieces of art.

As he walked down the hallway toward Logan's old bedroom, he could see light peeking out from the slightly ajar doorway in the hall. The sound of shuffling grew louder as he approached, and when he pushed the door open and stormed inside, he saw Logan standing on the raised landing at the back of the room where his bed and his desk were located. He was digging through drawers, tossing random items into the wastebasket at his feet and others in the box that he had set on the bed.

"You have some nerve," Mitchum said as he approached him.

"I'm just getting my stuff," Logan said as he slammed closed the bottom drawer on his desk and moved on to the bookshelf. He didn't even turn to look at him. Instead, he carried on quickly and efficiently at his task.

"Last I checked this is _my_ house," Mitchum replied. "And as far as I'm concerned anything in it belongs to me."

Logan scoffed in response. He took down a rather tall and wide hardback book from his shelf and finally looked him in the eye. He held the red and black book aloft in his hand, and Mitchum could make out the number 2000 embossed in silver at the top of the cover.

"You want to keep my high school yearbooks?" he asked sarcastically before grabbing another item from the shelf with his other hand. "And my Cake CD?"

With a flourish of his wrist, Logan flung the book in his hand across the room. It landed on the ground just a couple of feet in front of him, and it was followed shortly thereafter by the plastic square case holding the compact disc that he'd just referred to.

"Or here," Logan continued. "Here's a VHS copy of Mallrats. I sure hope you still have a VCR, because you won't want to miss Jay and Silent Bob beating up the Easter Bunny in front of a line of children. It's not Orson Wells, but you know… it's close."

When the videotape in question landed next to his feet by the other two items Logan had already flung his way, Mitchum had just about reached the limit of his patience. He hadn't been operating with very much to begin with, but so far he had managed to keep himself from strangling the kid. At this rate, however, he wasn't sure how much longer that was going to last.

"You think you're real smart, don't you?" he asked, stepping over the crap that Logan had just thrown at him and onto the landing where he stood.

Logan didn't respond to his question, he merely continued with his mission. Mitchum watched as he picked up a framed photograph of him and Honor sitting on a ski lift during their trip to Courchevel in 1991 and tossed it into the box on his bed, followed shortly by a tennis trophy and a basketball trophy and a little league trophy - none of which he actually remembered him winning.

But then coaches gave away trophies for just showing up to practice these days.

"You think I don't know what you're doing?" Mitchum asked, menacingly.

"No, Dad," said Logan. "Tell me. What is it that I'm doing?"

As Logan bent over to start clearing off a lower shelf, Mitchum's eyes landed on the baseball sitting just a couple feet away from him. It was perched in an ornate case, covered by a thick layer of glass to keep it protected from the elements. The leather had yellowed with time, but the blue ink was still as prominent as ever, and Mitchum could make out every single curvy letter from where he was standing, starting with the capital B and ending with the lowercase h.

"That baseball's sure worth a pretty penny isn't it?"

Logan stood up, and with a turn of his head his eyes landed on the same object Mitchum had been considering for the past few minutes. The expression on his face fell, and when he turned to look over at him a look of disgust replaced it.

It was far different from the look on his face when he had received the ball. It had been a gift from his father for his thirteenth birthday, and when he opened it he hadn't actually believed it was real. Mitchum knew that it was because he'd been present at the auction when his father had purchased it and he'd spent quite a bit of time bitterly ruminating over the fact that the man had never bothered to get him such a priceless and valuable gift for _his_ birthday. He wasn't sure what Logan had ever done to deserve such a gesture or to show that he was responsible or reverent enough to take care of such a priceless item.

Nevertheless, the ball signed by Babe Ruth's own hand had been sitting on his son's shelf for twelve years collecting dust. Taking it to a college dorm room was out of the question, and since then he'd practically forgotten about it. It was interesting that he suddenly had such an attachment to the thing now that he'd blown his trust fund, quit his job, and basically run out of money.

"You're unbelievable," Logan said. His eyes were narrowed and he was shaking his head back and forth as he continued to sort through all the items on his shelf, keeping some and trashing others.

"I'm unbelievable?" Mitchum asked. "I'm not the one breaking into my parents' house in a pathetic attempt to hock off priceless valuables because I'm broke and have no options."

"Breaking into your house?!" Logan spat with a sardonic laugh weaved through the words. "I'm not _breaking into_ your house. I walked in through the back door! I have a Goddamn key!"

"Yeah, and you brought your sister with you to be your bodyguard…"

"And I'm not broke with no options," Logan interrupted, ignoring his comment completely. "I have a fucking job, you unimaginable asshole."

In all the half assed defenses that Mitchum expected Logan to spit at him, he had to admit that hadn't been one of them. To say he was surprised was an understatement. He hadn't expected this at all. It wasn't that he didn't believe that Logan could find work if he wanted to. He knew that he could. He knew that Logan was smarter and more talented than he liked to behave. Mitchum simply never expected him to actually get off his ass and try.

Mitchum had been all but certain that the little "self made man" journey that Logan was suddenly interested in pursuing would last no more than a couple of months. He thought that the kid would end up dicking around for a few months doing nothing, accomplishing nothing, and generally wasting his time, and once he ran out of money entirely, he could come running back to him, begging for money, pleading for another chance, offering to do anything of Mitchum would bail him out of the mess he'd made of his life. Mitchum, of course, would oblige him, and everything would go back to the way that it was before. Probably before Christmas.

The last thing he had expected Logan to do was to put himself out in the world and actually make good on his decision to strike out on his own. And he had no idea what to do or what to think about it.

"You have a job?" he asked. "What do you mean you have a job?"

"What the fuck do you think I mean?!" Logan asked, waving the picture frame that was still in his hand around in the air with a gesticulation of his hand. "I applied for a job. I interviewed for the job. They offered me the job. I took the fucking job. I have a job. Is this somehow a difficult concept?"

A new rush of emotions washed over him at Logan's outburst. Yet, strangely, it wasn't anger or frustration or rage or anything even remotely similar to how he'd been feeling up until this moment. He almost felt… nervous.

This hadn't been part of the plan. When he'd issued the ultimatum to his son about his role in this family and this family's business, he hadn't actually expected Logan to choose the other option. Hearing that he actually had was triggering a strange sense of dread to bubble up in his stomach.

Thankfully, Mitchum was well practiced in covering up his fear with anger.

"Does it involve asking people if they want fries with that?" he belittled. Logan started shaking his head.

"It's at a tech startup in Silicon Valley," he replied. "Turns out that Yale degree you paid for still has _my_ name on it."

"So… what?" Mitchum asked, he could feel the dread in his stomach growing more and more intense. "You've got yourself a little job. You've proven that you don't need me. So what? You and your little girlfriend are going to pick up and move to California and never look back? Or is she your fiancee now? Don't think I didn't notice that hefty little purchase on your last credit card statement. I'm glad you were able to weasel one more thing out of me before you spit in my face."

Logan suddenly went quiet. His eyes glazed over and he seemed almost unsteady on his feet. It was at that moment that Mitchum finally got a good look at him. He'd been so enraged at the mere sight of him the moment he'd walked in the house, that he hadn't yet stopped to really consider how the kid looked.

It wasn't a pretty picture.

He was dressed in a navy blue hooded sweatshirt. It was oversized and old. The elastic cuffs on the sleeves had long ago stretched out, and there was some kind of dark stain marking the front pocket where he was holding his hands. His face was covered with days worth of stubble and his wavy hair was even more disheveled than usual. But, neither one of those factors were anything compared to the heavy purple bags under his eyes.

He looked like a broken man. Miserable. Sickly even.

If Logan hadn't just moments ago informed him that he'd landed a new career opportunity, he would assume that it was the result of his ruminations over all of the different ways he had gone out of his way to ruin his own life. However, he now had a distinct feeling that it was something else entirely.

"I'm going to California alone," Logan eventually admitted, meekly, grabbing another framed photograph from his shelf. "She didn't want to marry me. She didn't want to be tied down."

Mitchum had never been to therapy, but over the years as the practice became more and more popular he'd heard the people around him spout out the phrase 'Hurt people hurt people.' Platitudes and cliches of that kind usually made Mitchum groan and roll his eyes, but he had to wonder if perhaps that particular expression might have some truth to it.

Because, somewhere, deep within his subconscious, he knew that the only reason he said the next words that came out of his mouth was because he was hurting. Although he may not be able to admit it to his son - or even to himself - the fear that came from the idea of Logan flying off to California to possibly never be seen or heard from again was too much for him to bear. And the only way he knew how to handle it was to lash out.

"Well…" Mitchum said after a few moments of silence. "She always did have a good head on her shoulders, didn't she?"

The look that fell over Logan's face was unlike anything that Mitchum had ever seen from him. He'd seen Logan angry. He'd seen him enraged even. He'd seen him sad and melancholy and miserable. He'd seen that entire range of emotion on his face just within the last ten minutes. But, he had never seen this. It was a look of pure gut wrenching pain. It was mixed with a sense of shock and awe, reminding him almost of the look on a man's face as a bullet suddenly pierced through his flesh out of nowhere and the life began to leave his eyes.

Mitchum would know what that looked like. He'd seen it before. In Haiti. The only difference was then the bullet was real, and the victim was a stranger. Now, he was the bullet, and the victim was his only son.

Logan stood starting at him for a second in an almost dissociative state. The frame he'd grabbed off the shelf just moments before was hanging limp in his grip, and his eyes were glazing over. He knew instantly that he should apologize. He knew right away that he'd gone too far, that he'd just hurt Logan in a way that he had never managed to hurt him before. But, he just couldn't do it.

His anger was still boiling hot. He was too disappointed. Too deep in to dealing with the ramifications of the crisis that he was running away from. Too resentful. Too betrayed after all the years that he'd been training Logan for this life and all the messes that he'd cleaned up for him over the years. Too afraid that Logan would live up to his bluff to walk away from everything that came with the name Huntzberger. He was too full of pride.

Instead, he said nothing. He offered no apology. He offered no words of comfort, no words of wisdom. If Mitchum was a good father – or even a good man – he would tell Logan what he was really thinking. He would tell him that he was sorry. He would tell him that he would always had a place in this family. He would tell him that letting Rory go was a mistake. He would tell him that although this might feel like an insurmountable hurdle to his young mind, that things like this actually weren't as cut and dry as they seemed. He would tell him that love like that doesn't simply vanish overnight because of one question and one answer. He would tell him that if he would just talk to her - _really_ talk to her - they could probably figure things out and find a way to make a life together.

He would tell him that he knew exactly how he felt, and that if he didn't go after her then he would likely regret it for the rest of his life.

But, he didn't.

Logan's hand and the frame inside it had been hovering over the box on his bed for what seemed like ages. But eventually, once the anguish started to melt away from his expression, his arm moved from its original target. He moved it over to his left and dropped the item into the wastebasket with all the other keepsakes and random items that he'd decided to trash rather than take with him to California.

Once he was disposed of the item, he picked up the cardboard box and started walking back toward the bedroom door.

"You can keep the baseball. You always wanted it more than I did," he said as he went, driving the knife further into Mitchum's chest. "I'll email you my new address."

"No need," Mitchum replied, causing Logan to pause one more time in the doorway. Yet, his head did not turn to look back at him. "You can send it to your mother if you really want to."

No more words were exchanged between them. Logan hung there for a moment, not speaking. Then, with a quick set of his jaw and a nod of his head, he walked out the doorway without so much as a goodbye.

Mitchum let him go. He didn't follow him down the hall or the stairs. He didn't see him out the front door. Instead, he stood alone in what used to be his son's room like a coward, looking around at all of the shelves that were now completely devoid of any indication that he had once lived here. With one angry visit and one single cardboard box, Logan had practically erased himself from his life. All that remained was whatever he had left behind in the trash.

Taking a step forward, Mitchum started to walk around the side of the bed where Logan had been standing. When he reached the waste basket, he looked downward. Inside were mostly innocuous items: old notebooks, ratty T-shirts, old dried up ballpoint pens, and crumpled up pieces of paper. His eyes landed on the frame that Logan had just dropped inside of it mere moments ago, and he felt his heart rip in two at the sight of it.

He pulled it out of the trash can and had to sit down on the bed as he looked at it. Inside was a picture taken just under twenty years ago. Logan had to be no more than seven or eight years old, and he was standing on the deck of their old sailboat next to a rather large striped bass that was almost as long as he was tall. A younger Mitchum was crouched on one knee next to him, holding the fish in his arms with a wide smile and a look of pride across his face, and Logan was looking up at him with an expression of wonder and glee.

The people in this picture were almost unrecognizable now. He didn't know who they were, what had happened to them. All he knew was that they were gone. All that existed of them was a memory.

It was a memory that Mitchum ached for in his very soul. It was a memory of a time when things were simpler. Mitchum looked at this photograph and saw all the things that he used to be. He saw all the things that he had wanted to be once upon a time. He saw a young father who was proud of his son for making the first big catch of his life, and he saw a little boy who looked at his father like he hung the stars.

Logan looked at this photograph and saw nothing but a piece of trash.

What made it all the worse, what made his chin start to quiver and his hands start to shake, was that Mitchum knew that he only had himself to blame. It was his fault that he no longer knew who these people were - that neither of them knew who those people were. It was his fault that the bright future he'd once imagined for the both of them would never come to be. He only had himself to blame.

As was always the case when the people he loved most in his life left him, he only had himself to blame.

* * *

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. This was a rough one guys. Sorry about this one. Truth be told, I actually hadn't originally planned for this chapter in my initial outline, but as I was finishing up the last chapter and starting up the one following this one, I realized that I couldn't jump over this moment. The deterioration of their relationship at the end of season seven, and Mitchum finding out about the failed proposal was just too important. And I don't think that the next chapter and the chapters that follow would hit the same without it. So, bad news you got to read a super bummer chapter. Good news, you get a bonus chapter! I've also adjusted the summary to this fic accordingly.
> 
> Also, by this point, you've probably picked up on the fact that this fic will be stretching out to the revival. I've had a few questions about that, so I thought I'd explicitly answer that, yes, we will be covering AYITL in this…. And beyond? Lol. Not too far beyond, but yes, it will stretch beyond the revival.
> 
> As always, please leave a review. I really appreciate it!


	7. The Thanksgiving Guests

**The Thanksgiving Guests**

"I thought you said your parents were going to your sister's for Thanksgiving!" yelled Mitchum as he walked through the dining room and noticed that there were a total of six place settings on the table.

"What?!"

Mitchum closed his eyes and sighed as his wife's ear splitting voice carried through the house from the direction of the patio. He could only think of one reason why she would be outside in this kind of weather. The cold November air and the overcast skies hardly made for the most pleasant atmosphere. As he walked closer to the backdoor, the ever so familiar smell of cigarette smoke wafted through the halls, confirming his suspicions – both of them. If Shira was stressed enough to smoke, that could only mean that she was preparing for a less than pleasant holiday.

"I said, I thought your parents were going to your sister's for Thanksgiving," repeated Mitchum.

As he neared the patio door, he noted that it was open. The cold winter air was slipping into the house and Shira was hanging in the doorway, turning her head to blow puffs of smoke into the back yard but not fully committing to being outside. Her hair was still wrapped around a set of rollers and she was dressed in a light pink tracksuit. None of this was a good sign. She only had a few minutes before the company was scheduled to arrive. Usually she would be ready by now. Usually she would have been ready an hour ago. Though, at least she already had her makeup on.

"I could have used some warning, you know," he continued. "I would have made a trip to the liquor store. I really don't need to start my holiday listening to your father complain about how I'm worth hundreds of millions of dollars, but I can't manage to afford a bottle of Manischewitz."

Mitchum could afford an eight dollar bottle of Manischewitz. He could probably afford to buy the entire winery. He just had a moral objection to budget concord wine, and he didn't like it taking up space on his shelf. But then, Ira Levine didn't really care that much about the Manischewitz. He just hated Mitchum. And he really hated the fact that Mitchum had 'turned his daughter into some goyishe princess' – never mind the fact that Shira's own mother was Presbyterian.

"My parents aren't coming," Shira said, after a particularly long drag. She threw the cigarette down on the ground and crushed it with her foot before stepping back inside and closing the door behind her.

Mitchum quirked an eyebrow as he watched his wife walk through the living room and head up the stairs, pulling the rollers out of her hair along the way. He followed her, now entirely confused. If his parents-in-law weren't attending, then he had no idea who else was going to be here. All of his siblings had their own Thanksgiving plans. His father was having dinner with his younger brother, David's, family. The last time he checked, this year was going to be a small dinner. No one but the nuclear family. Four people – himself, Shira, Honor, and Josh.

"There are six table settings," he said as he followed Shira into their bedroom. She sat down at her vanity and finished taking the rollers out of her hair. "I thought it was just the immediate family this year."

"It is," she said. She wasn't making eye contact with him. She started brushing her hair into place and picked up a can of hairspray.

"Have I… somehow forgotten how to count… or…"

"Logan is coming."

Blood rushed to Mitchum's ears so quickly that he could literally hear his pulse beating. He was almost disoriented, but he thankfully managed not to sway on his feet. Logan hadn't come home in three years. The last time that he and Logan had said more than three sentences to each other was the day that he had come home to pack up his bedroom. Since then, the only time he had spoken to Logan was when Shira would shove a phone in his hand and they would have a clipped conversation spoken in mostly monosyllables and empty small talk not diving much deeper than a basic and terse 'How are you? I'm fine.'

"What?!" he asked.

"Logan is coming," Shira repeated. "Your son. Remember? You have a son? Blond hair. Brown Eyes. About 5'10''. He was born in 1982 – February, 22? I think you were there."

"Why are you just now telling me this?!" Mitchum boomed.

It was clear now why she had been smoking. He had to wonder what would have happened if he hadn't noticed the table settings and asked her about it. Would Logan have just walked through the door without any warning whatsoever? And when and _how_ exactly had she convinced him to come here in the first place?

"Because I knew you would react like this!" said Shira as she turned in her chair and looked at him murderously. "I knew you would try to keep him from coming home!"

"Shira," Mitchum sneered. "I am notgoing to sit here on Thanksgiving and play ni _-_ "

"I haven't seen my son in three years, Mitchum!" Shira yelled. "Three years of nothing but stifled phone calls and Christmas cards. I'm _done_. He's my son. My baby. I carried him in my womb for nine months. I gave birth to him. And I haven't seen him in _three years_ because of _you_! I _finally_ managed to convince him to come home for _one_ day, and I am _not_ going to let you ruin this for me!"

Shira stormed from her vanity into her closet and Mitchum heard the overly aggressive sound of hangers shifting around on their poles. When she returned, she was dressed in a rust colored wrap dress and sticking a pair of diamond studded gold earrings in her ears.

"He's coming, and you are going to sit there and pretend to be happy to see him. I don't want to hear another _word_ about it. I don't care if it means you don't open your mouth for the rest of the day. In fact, I'd welcome it."

With those final words, Shira stormed out of room, leaving him standing in her wake in an angry silence. He momentarily considered following her, but he soon thought better of it. The day was clearly going to be miserable enough without going out of his way to worsen his wife's mood.

Fifteen minutes later, Mitchum was standing in the living room nursing the first of what would likely be many glasses of scotch for the day when the doorbell rang. The rate of his intake quickly went from nursing to shooting as he heard the sound of the maid greeting their guests and taking their coats. He'd been hoping that his daughter and son-in-law would get here first… But, so much for small graces.

Shira shot up on her feet and straightened out her dress, and as soon as Logan appeared in the hall to the right of the living room she was calling out to him and her arms were around him. She held onto him tightly for a few seconds, as if she was afraid he might disappear on her, but Mitchum hung back. He let them have their moment while his eyes landed on the girl that had followed his son into the room.

She was a far cry from the last woman Logan had brought into this house, and Mitchum actually found himself feeling somewhat disappointed at the sight of her. It clearly hadn't taken very long at all for Logan to get right back on his bullshit after breaking up with the supposed 'love of his life. But, he had learned three years ago that Logan was determined to destroy his life. And he'd long ago decided that he wasn't going to stand in his way any longer.

The girl was overwhelmed. A lot of people were overwhelmed when they walked into this house, but for the most part they did a good job of at least attempting to hide it. This girl didn't even look like she was trying. She was looking around slack jawed, turning her head in every possible direction.

Mitchum rolled his eyes at her presence and poured himself another glass of scotch.

"…And who is this?" he heard Shira ask and she finally relinquished their son from her grasp.

She had a look on her face that was hard to describe, but perfectly recognizable. The best analogy that Mitchum had ever come up with when describing this particular facial expression was something akin to the girl in Willy Wonka who ends up turning into a blueberry. She seemed to almost turn blue and bloat with discomfort as she attempted to keep a friendly smile on her face while clearly dying on the inside.

Obviously, Shira wasn't thrilled with the presence of this particular guest. Though, her track record with being happy about the women Logan brought home wasn't exactly stellar, so neither one of them should probably be all that surprised. This time, however, they could probably all be grateful for the fact that she was terrified of setting Logan off and giving him another reason to walk out the door and not come back. He seriously doubted she would say a single negative word about it.

"This is Lauren Bell," he said, introducing her. "She's… a friend of mine. She didn't have anywhere to go, so I offered to bring her here."

Mitchum scoffed. There was no way in hell this girl was just a _friend_ of his – not with those legs and those tits. He also highly doubted Logan would have invited anyone to come along with him to what was certain to be a train wreck of a holiday without the prospect of some… stress relief… after the fact.

"Dad," said Logan.

The sardonic sound coming from his throat finally prompted Logan to look over at him. Yet, there was no greeting, no platitudes, just an acknowledgement of the fact that he was standing there. Logan didn't move a millimeter closer to him either. He just gazed at him from his spot in the hallway, his hands in his pockets and his jaw tight.

Mitchum observed him, and as he stood there he felt an unexpected and frustrating pang in his heart. Three years. This was the first time he was setting eyes on his own son in three years.

Contrary to popular belief, Mitchum wasn't actually a sociopath. He really did hold the capacity for human emotion. He had a beating heart in his chest. He was just skilled at hiding it. And as easy as the hiding came, it wasn't easy to control the unexpected feelings of sadness, regret, and… _relief_ that came at the sight of the boy – man – in front of him.

He looked good. He was still fit – still clean shaven. His hair was much the same although trimmed a little closer on the sides, and Mitchum was starting to notice a creeping brown overwhelming the blond at his roots. He was dressed in a pair of charcoal grey slacks and a red v-neck sweater over a checkered shirt and a black tie. Mitchum even caught the sight of a black Movado watch on his left wrist – a watch that he had never seen before, a watch that he'd no doubt purchased himself. All in all his son looked put together, polished… successful.

"Logan," he mirrored before taking a sip of his scotch.

"How's the _newspaper_ business?" Logan asked. "Have you managed to find anyone who still reads them?"

Sarcasm was dripping from his tone. He had a smarmy smirk on his face, and suddenly all the repressed feelings of paternal affection that had burst forth a moment ago were forgotten. Now, he wanted nothing more than to smack that look off his face. His son knew very well how the newspaper business was.

He knew it was floundering. He knew that companies like his were struggling. He knew that stocks were down. He knew they were selling holdings in favor of consolidating focus on larger properties. He knew they were struggling to establish themselves in the very precarious new online medium that had blindsided all of them. He knew that smaller but prominent publishing firms like his and The New York Times Company were being targeted for acquisition from overlords and bastardizers of the news like Rupert Murdoch. He knew that social media companies from _his_ industry were barreling into the news business as monopolizing disrupters and completely overturning the way that his business had run for generations. He knew that there was no good way to convince people to pay for their news when they could get it online for free.

They had been operating on a loss for six consecutive quarters.

Logan already knew all of that. So, Mitchum didn't dignify the question with an answer.

"How's Silicon Valley?" he asked instead. "Are you getting any work done between the time you spend snorting lines of coke in nightclub bathrooms or riding a ziplines from the chimney of your incubator into your swimming pool?"

"Saw _The Social Network_ , huh?" said Logan, calling out the latter half of the picture he was painting with ease. "So I guess you know everything about my life now?"

Mitchum didn't comment. He maintained steady and foreboding eye contact with his son, hoping to show that he wasn't amused or chagrined by his comment. In truth though, Logan had hit the directly on the head. He _had_ seen _The Social Network._ And it _had_ been the catalyst for him gaining most of his knowledge on the topic.

He would be lying if he said that watching that movie hadn't made him think of Logan. It was impossible to watch it and _not_ think of Logan. How was he supposed to sit through a movie as a fly on the wall of Ivy League life in 2003 and _not_ think of Logan? Watching that movie had harshly opened his eyes to how completely out of touch he'd been with his son's reality all those years.

It made him keenly aware of how entirely different their college experiences had been – how entirely different the worlds they moved through actually were. His concept of success was so profoundly different to than that of Logan's generation - Millennials they were calling them now. His entire way of life was becoming obsolete.

Mitchum had gone to Yale confident that all he needed to do to succeed was learn his father's business, get his degree, and get in line. The company that his ancestors had run for generations was straightforward and bullet proof. He'd spent years trying to ram the same idea into his son's head, and it was only now that he realized it had been like trying to shove a square peg in a round hole.

Logan went to college on the precipice of an entirely different world. He had the foresight to know that nothing was straightforward and bullet proof anymore. He and his peers knew that the world five years from their graduation date would be entirely different from the world that came before it. They knew because they were the ones making it. And when Mitchum wouldn't listen to Logan's attempts to enlighten him, he had the good sense to get out and go where the money was – where the future was.

He would almost be proud if he still wasn't so angry.

He thought about Logan through every second of that movie. From the politics of contemporary Ivy League life to the culture of Silicon Valley… to the very first scene featuring a sharp witted, no-nonsense brunette who far more impressed with hard work and moral integrity than any kind of money, power, or status - a brunette so vastly different to the blonde bombshell _currently_ attached to his son's arm.

"Why don't we get you two some drinks?" Shira chimed in, the tone of her voice was as saccharine as Mitchum and Logan's were terse. She led the two of them into the living room where they sat down on the couch. "Lauren? What would you like?"

"Oh… I dunno… like…. white wine? I guess…"

Mitchum felt momentarily sorry for the girl. He smiled at her. She was an innocent party in all of this, after all. Though, she had probably been warned.

"We can do that," he said, cheerfully, noticing how Logan was rolling his eyes at the change in tone. "I have a Grüner Veltliner that I've been wanting to break in for a while cooling in the wine fridge. Or a Marsanne Blanc. What's your poison?"

Lauren looked at him as if he was speaking Aramaic, not just a foreign language but an entirely dead one.

"Uh…" she said, turning her head to Logan. "Do you have… like… Moscato?"

"You know what, Mom? I'll get it."

Logan leaned over and whispered to his… _friend_ that she would like the Veltliner before standing up and walking toward the kitchen. Shira was on her feet again the instant he stood up. She slipped her arm through his as he walked out, going on about how they had just redone the kitchen and she couldn't wait to show him.

Mitchum stayed where he was. His eyes followed them for a moment, and when they disappeared down the hall they landed back on his son's companion for the evening. She was looking around the house again, her eyes taking in every detail and eventually landing on the painting to the right of the fireplace. The silence grew awkward, and she cleared her throat and opened her mouth.

"Is that an ancestor?" she asked him, gesturing to the portrait of the Infanta Margarita. He pursed his lips.

"That's… Velasquez," he answered, thinking it was explanation enough.

"Oh," Lauren chimed. "Logan didn't tell me he was part Hispanic."

Mitchum blinked at her for a second. He opened his mouth to reply, but immediately thought better of it. It was one day. If he could get through one day with his son, he could get through one day with the moronic bimbo that he'd decided to bring with him. It wasn't really any of his business anyway.

In another world, a world where Logan hadn't turned his back on the family and moved across the country to get away from them and a world where Mitchum hadn't gone out of his way to destroy whatever semblance of a relationship existed between them, he might have a leg to stand on. He might be within his rights to ask the kid what the hell he was thinking, to tell him that regressing back to his old dating habits wasn't the way to get over Rory. He might even remind him that he'd tried this once before and it has been a disaster.

As it was, Mitchum wasn't within his rights at all. And, to be frank, he couldn't really bring himself to care much how Logan decided to blow up his personal life.

He raised his glass to his mouth, pouring down another sip of the Balvenie 30 that he had purchased especially for this Thanksgiving and Christmas. It was meant to be savored. It was meant to stretch for months if not years. It was a $1200 bottle of scotch.

It would probably be gone by the end of the night.

And it was. Along with his sanity.

* * *

Over the past two years, Mitchum had started to get somewhat used to the idea of Logan coming home for Thanksgiving. It wasn't as though things were bright and cheery between them, but the dark and precarious animosity that had existed between them since the first Thanksgiving he returned seemed to improve with every visit. What had once been palpable resentment and ill will was slowly moving toward mere uncomfortable tension.

He'd been back twice since then, once for last year's Thanksgiving and then for the following , he was perfectly aware that his willingness of late to return for major holidays had nothing at all to do with him, or even his mother for that matter. Were it not for the toe-headed baby currently munching on a cheese cracker in a high chair next to his daughter, Mitchum couldn't help but wonder if Logan would have ever returned again after the first, and slightly disastrous, Thanksgiving visit two years ago.

Apparently, being an uncle was making the kid sentimental, or at the very least sentimental enough to suffer through two meals a year across the table from him. Yet, regardless of the reason for Logan's sudden willingness to be a part of this family, even he had to admit that he had stopped looking at his yearly visits with dread.

They were starting to feel normal again.

That is, they _were_ feeling normal until Logan had come home seemingly an entirely different person.

This Thanksgiving found their son once again in the company of an attractive and equally dumbfounding dinner companion. Although, where Lauren had been brainless, vapid, and clearly a channel for nothing more than a sexual release, _Erin_ had been something else entirely. And she had brought an entirely different man back home with her.

The moment Shira had opened the door, she had been rendered entirely speechless at the vision that stood in front of her. Her once well coiffed, designer suit wearing, clean shaven baby boy had morphed into something out of her worst nightmare.

Logan walked through the door donned in a gray shirt with a plaid burgundy bow tie wrapped around his neck and a black waistcoat wrapped around his midsection. Those elements of his wardrobe alone weren't entirely shocking, but it was everything else about it that sent Shira into a catatonic state. His sleeves were messily rolled up to his elbows. His shirt was tucked into a pair of skinny black _jeans_ held up by a leather belt. And the worst of it… the worst of it all was the thick layer of blond and brown hair that was covering his cheeks, jaw, chin, and upper lip.

He had grown a beard – and not just the light brush of stubble that would appear on a man's cheeks after a particularly stressful week at work. No. This was a beard. A deliberate, well groomed, entirely purposeful _beard_.

The girl that had walked in with him… well… Mitchum had a feeling that if he had a giant crane machine and randomly dropped the claw into the streets of San Francisco, he would come back with this girl. Her straight and silky black hair was cropped just at her collar bone and covered by a burgundy wide brimmed hat, and she was dressed in a tight fitting floral shirt dress over black tights that disappeared into a pair of heeled booties.

When she took her leather moto jacket off and Mitchum got a better look at was underneath, his eyes had almost gone as wide as his wife's. He was about 99% sure that the girl wasn't wearing a bra. Surprisingly, however, that hadn't been what Shira was focused on. She couldn't stop staring at the inked feather that started at the underside of her wrist and dissolved into a flock of birds flying all the way up her arm.

Shira continued staring at it all the way through the awkward cocktail hour. When they had walked into the living room for drinks, Erin, unlike the girl who came before her, immediately recognized the Velasquez on the wall. However, his appreciation for her discerning eye went completely out the window when he overheard her murmuring to Logan about how ridiculous it was that it was hanging in their living room instead of in a museum. Those comments were quickly followed by some observations about the house in general – its size, its opulence, and its no doubt considerable _carbon_ _footprint_.

All of those comments weren't meant to be heard, of course. But they were. He was pretty sure Shira had missed them, but Mitchum was a keen observer. He was perceptive. He was a journalist for crying out loud. He noticed things. And one of the things he noticed was that this was the first time in his life that someone had stepped into his home and _not_ been impressed. And he wasn't quite sure what to make of that.

He had done a pretty good job at keeping his annoyance with the girl under wraps until they went into the dining room to sit down for dinner. Judgmental questions about the presence of kitchen staff on Thanksgiving and the assurance from Logan that he has asked them to include some vegan dishes for her were his tipping point.

"So, Erin…" Mitchum asked.

The words lingered in the air between them. It was the first time he had actually addressed her directly for the entire evening. The clanking of forks against salad plates suddenly stopped as the air became thick with tension. Honor shot an apologetic look to Logan – a telltale sign of sibling solidarity.

"Where did you two meet? Haight-Ashbury?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah," Logan answered for her. Mitchum could already hear the smart ass tone and braced himself for whatever was coming next. "We bumped into each other because we both needed to use the payphone at the automat."

"We have a mutual friend," Erin answered, before sending a slightly reproachful look at Logan's sarcastic comment regarding his apparently anachronistic comment. "She's Logan's corporate counsel. We went to law school together."

" _You're_ an attorney?!"

Shira's voice was loud and dripping with shock. Mitchum suppressed a chuckle, but the kids seemed less than amused. He watched as Erin's back stiffened and she forced a smile on her face.

"Yes," Erin answered, nodding her head. " _I'm_ an attorney."

"Josh is an attorney too! How funny." Honor chimed in a friendly effort to redirect the focus of the conversation. "He was actually made partner a couple - "

"And they let you have… _tattoos_ … at your firm?" Shira interrupted. Logan let out a deep sigh and started twirling his scotch around in his glass while Honor sent him another apologetic look – as if to tell him that she tried.

"Um… yeah…" Erin answered with a nod. "They let me have tattoos at my firm."

"Where did you go to school?" asked Mitchum.

Logan glared at him. It sounded innocuous, but it was a loaded question. It was always a loaded question at the Huntzberger table.

"Northwestern for undergrad. And then Stanford law."

Mitchum hummed. It wasn't a bad answer.

"And what area of law do you practice?"

"Environmental."

The streak of good answers came to a swift end.

Mitchum laughed out loud. Logan looked ready to jump at him from across the table. Shira's face was frozen in a Stepford like smile. Josh was entirely engrossed in his salad. But, Erin, to her credit, looked more amused than chagrined.

"Environmental law? With a Stanford degree?" he asked. "I hope you have a plan to pay off all that debt. Because you're not going to make any money working."

"Oh, I thought I'd just find some rich white trust fund kid and trick him into marrying me."

Shira choked on her wine. Mitchum sat back in his chair and smirked at her. She was fixing him with a hard stare, completely unintimidated and unphased by his attempts to get under her skin. As annoying as he was finding her more bleeding heart qualities, he was actually starting to like her. He could see what Logan saw in her. She was undeniably beautiful – magnetic even. And she was definitely intelligent – educated, quick witted, acerbic.

Overall – she was very much his type. In another time, she might even be Mitchum's type. In fact, there was a certain defiance in her demeanor that reminded him of… well… on second thought, that comparison might be something of a stretch.

As clear as it was why Logan might be drawn in by the enigmatic girl sitting next to him, he had to admit he had a hard time figuring out what exactly it was that _she_ saw in him. Obviously, her answer about the money wasn't at all serious, and he couldn't help but think that someone so _drastically_ left wing would typically be turned off by someone like Logan. Although, that might explain why Logan had seemed distinctly unlike _Logan_ since the moment he walked in the door.

"Well… Good luck finding him," said Mitchum. "I would say you got lucky. But, Logan doesn't have a trust fund because he gambled it away when he was twenty-five."

If Mitchum thought the air in the dining room had been icy before, then it might as well have been Pluto at this point. The conversation came to a dead end, and they all sat in silence for a few moments until Shira jumped up from her seat.

It was the first time since Logan had started returning home that anyone had mentioned the catalyst for their previous years of estrangement out loud. His wife was clearly uncomfortable by the topic, but Shira had never really been one to embrace reality if it wasn't pleasant enough by her standards.

"Excuse me for a moment," she said before fleeing the dining room.

Seconds later, he heard the sound of the patio doors open and it wasn't long before the smell of cigarette smoke started wafting through the hall and into the dining room.

The tension in the air was thick, uncomfortable, and likely unbreakable. Yet, Honor, with her endless optimism and cheerful demeanor, seemed determined to keep the conversation moving. Her efforts once again hinged on the presence of the newest member of the Huntzberger family.

"Josh and I were talking about having Kennedy's birthday at the Vineyard this summer," she said, derailing the previous subject entirely. It was the first Mitchum was hearing of this new plan, and he couldn't help but think she had something up her sleeve.

"It's close to the time of year we're usually down there anyway," she continued. "I thought it might be fun to have a beach party. Josh's parents just bought a house in Edgartown, so it would be easy to have the family all in one place. Them, you, Mom, and… I mean Logan could fly in."

Apparently, he was right. Mitchum watched as Honor turned her head toward her younger brother and flashed him a somewhat innocent look. Of course, she was anything but innocent. They both knew that she was using the baby as leverage to get him to agree to coming home for yet another family occasion that he had long ago cut out of his annual plans.

"If you wanted to…" she said. "And, you know, Erin would be more than welcome too."

Logan looked just as annoyed and put off at her less than stealthy attempts as he was. But, just as Mitchum was loath to deny his granddaughter anything in the world, Logan seemed to be equally as loath to deny his niece.

"We'll see," he answered, tersely.

The rest of the holiday passed somewhat awkwardly. They let the kids take over whatever semblance of conversation was left as they wrapped up dinner. Shira didn't say a single word for the rest of the evening until the door shut behind their son at the end of the night. Yet, apparently, her mind had been working over drive during her silence.

"Why on _Earth_ did he think it would be okay for him to bring that … that… _prostitute_ home to Thanksgiving dinner?!" she screeched. "You need to talk to him, Mitchum! He's clearly going through some kind of crisis."

Mitchum actually laughed out loud at the words. Clearly, his wife had completely lost her mind. He and Logan could barely get through a conversation about today's football game, and the idea that butting into his personal life at this point would be met with anything but vitriol and rage was farcical. Besides, even if their relationship was broken beyond recognition, Shira should know by now that he didn't like involve himself in such matters.

"Don't you _dare_ laugh at me!" she yelled. "Did you _see him?_ Did you _see_ what he was wearing? What was on his face?! Are you really just going to stand around and let that little… hippie turn him into some kind of… _socialist?!"_

"Shira you need to calm down," Mitchum said, sitting back down on the couch and lifting his glass of scotch to his lips. " _Logan_ isn't going to turn into a socialist, okay? The second she tries to make him live without valet parking or even suggests that he goes vegan, he'll run so quickly for the hills he'll break the sound barrier."

Logan's neoliberalism might have been left wing enough to set his grandfather's teeth on edge, but he highly doubted it was enough to keep a girl like that from ultimately growing to despise him. It was really only a matter of time before she realized that the "rich" she was so dying to munch on was sitting across her dinner table. He only hoped that Logan would end up finding a way out before he ended up on the plate.

Sure enough, when Logan returned home for Christmas just one month later, he was noticeably lacking in a female companion. And a beard. And a pair of jeans. Apparently Erin was spending the holiday with her own family. And by June, when he decided to fly to the Vineyard for the first time in five years, she was out of the picture entirely.

He didn't seem all that upset. In fact, somewhere between grilling the lobsters, hosting the clam bake, taking the boat out for a spin, and playing a round of 18 at the club, Logan seemed the least upset that he'd seemed in years.

At the end of the day, just as Mitchum thought, you can take the trust fund kid out of the elitist East Coast, but you can't take the elitist East Coast out of the trust fund kid.

* * *

After the debacle with Erin, Mitchum actually had the gall to think that Shira might lighten up regarding the women that their son decided to bring home for the holidays. Most people, faced with their nightmare scenario, might start to look back on their previous objections with a more judicial eye. Though, after decades of marriage, Mitchum had long ago come to the realization that his wife was not _most_ people.

Of course, Logan's age wasn't helping matters. Shira's plan to have their son married off and making babies by the time he was thirty had long ago expired, and the angst that grew within her soul every time he brought home a girl that she deemed less than ideal resulted in near annual mental breakdowns. The days of his wife being happy to merely have their son willing to walk into their home were over, and the more Logan started to reinsert himself into the family, the more they all slipped back into their old patterns.

And patterns they were. Because Mitchum couldn't help but think that there was something familiar about the scene in front of him.

Eerily familiar.

"So… _Rachel_ …" Shira said, forcing a smile on her face as she cut into a slice of turkey on her plate. "Logan mentioned that you're very active with your work...What is it that you do?"

To anyone with a healthy brain, the question posed by his wife was entirely normal, friendly even. However, to everyone else sitting around the table, it was a well hidden and incredibly subtle attack. Logan, knowing that his mother was digging at his most recent girlfriend's devotion to her career, cleared his throat and shot Mitchum a pointed look. Though, he didn't know what he expected him to do about it.

"I'm a writer," the girl answered sweetly. She tucked a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear, and when she turned her attention back down to her meal, her bangs shifted over her forehead ever so slightly.

"She's a journalist," Logan corrected, placing his hand on the girl's knee under the table.

She looked over at him and sighed, embarrassment shining in her bright blue eyes. But, the look that Logan was giving her made it clear that he wasn't going to back down from his statement.

"Logan's being sweet. I wouldn't call myself a _journalist_ ," she dismissed, demurely. "I've done a little bit of freelancing for The Chronicle, but mostly I write for a tech blog. I'm not covering The Iranian Hostage Crisis or anything…"

Mitchum startled a bit at the statement. Clearly the girl knew who he was. For the most part, he was used to people knowing who he was. But, usually not people so young. And not people from the West Coast.

"It takes a lot of different beats to make a paper. I'd had a hard time selling The Standard on Wall Street if all we talked about was Afghanistan," he replied before taking a sip of his drink. "Are you from the Bay Area?"

"Um, yes," Rachel responded. "I went to Harvard for school, but I moved back after graduation."

"Harvard?!" Mitchum asked with a good natured laugh. "Uh oh. Logan didn't tell us he was bringing a Harvard girl home."

"I'm afraid it's true," she answered with a teasing smile. "Though, I've decided not to hold the whole Yale thing against you all."

Mitchum laughed again. There was something about the girl that put him in a good mood. She seemed sharp. She had a quick wit about her. She was definitely pretty, and she had some good insights into the news businesses.

They spent the rest of the evening getting to know each other a bit more. Rachel regaled them with some stories about working on The Crimson in college. She told them about the vineyard that their family had run in Napa for generations, about her single mother, about meeting Logan while writing a piece on the sale of his company.

By the end of the night, Mitchum was taken with her. Shira still seemed less than thrilled, but he couldn't help but think he could get used to her. He could see them together. In fact, he was purposefully ignoring a pestering voice at the back of his head telling him that he already _had_ seen them together.

Honor, however, was far less interested in ignoring the massive pink elephant lying next to the turkey in the center of the room. When Logan and Rachel slipped outside to take a walk around the grounds after dinner, she filled the awkward silence with a pointed question.

"Are we just not going to say anything about it?"

Apparently, they weren't. And Mitchum didn't understand why any single one of them should. First of all, it wasn't their business. And, secondly, the subject was less than pleasant. In true Huntzberger fashion, everyone seemed far more willing to sweep it under the rug than they were to call it out on its face. What difference did it make if the resemblance was somewhat… uncanny? In his mind, there wasn't anything wrong with a man having a type.

At least, that's what he tried to tell himself. Somewhere, deep down, he knew that this was a lot more than a 'type.' He knew that Logan bringing this girl home wasn't a sign that he had moved on with his life. In fact, it was the opposite. To many, Logan's revolving door of vastly different women over the last few years might speak of a man who wasn't sure what he wanted. Mitchum knew, however, that Logan's problem wasn't at all that he didn't know what he wanted.

His problem was that he knew _exactly_ what he wanted, and it wasn't available to him.

Rachel made one more return visit around Christmas, and Mitchum momentarily convinced himself that the concerns he'd been shoving down at Thanksgiving were unfounded. There were plenty of ways that Rachel was different, and a few artificial similarities didn't add up to anything. Yet, as the days passed, it became harder and harder for him to ignore the fact that every time they laughed, Logan's smile never _quite_ reached his eyes. Still, it wasn't his place to say anything about it.

When it came time for their trip to the Vineyard, Rachel, like the girls before her, had vanished into thin air. There was a certain sadness in Logan's eyes after the breakup, one that had been missing after the previous ones. He'd attempted to shrug off the sense of melancholy as a typical post-breakup malaise. But, a single Freudian slip he'd made over a bottle of scotch shared during a windy night on the patio made it impossible for Mitchum to remain in denial any longer about the deeply imbedded nature of his son's heartbreak.

He wasn't sure what exactly it was that made Logan agree to sign back onto the company in the months that would follow. Perhaps it was the breakup with Rachel. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd sold his company, and he no longer had any official professional ties in San Francisco. But, in Mitchum's more sentimental moments, he liked to think that it was partly due to the fact that in that one moment on the patio, he had been able to offer his son the smallest piece of comfort.

The kind of comfort that he had so often failed to offer him before.

"You'll be okay, kid," he said, placing a hand on Logan's shoulder and squeezing it as he started walking back into the house to grab another drink. "You always are."

Neither one of them talked of that moment ever again, but he knew that it had been a start. It wasn't overly profound, and it wasn't like there was any advice offered or wisdom imparted in the words, but it was something. Something other than antagonistic stares and tense silence and pointed barbs. It was a white flag.

Logan's readiness to leave the California chapter of his life behind, the death of his grandfather, the birth of a new nephew, and the newly brokered peace between the two of them all converged upon each other by the time the year was over. And the confluence of all those events had resulted in an outcome that Mitchum had long ago assumed was impossible.

By the following Thanksgiving, Logan was busy settling himself at the HPG headquarters in Europe. He was once again primarily based in London, but he was Mitchum's eyes and ears for matters all over the continent. He was growing their international presence online. He was looking into possible acquisitions in the European market. He was attending meetings, seminars, and networking events in Paris, Hamburg, and Vienna.

It was enough to keep him too busy to return home the first year he was there. Yet, by the next year, in true Logan fashion, he was calling his mother to request a plus one at the dinner table.

Shira was instantly set off, complaining endlessly about who it was they should expect him to bring this time. Possibly some Geordie reality tv star or some middle aged Italian cougar or some vagabond he'd picked up at a hostel in Amsterdam. She was making less than savory comments about it all the way up until the moment when they began to hear the footsteps of their son and his companion walk into the living room on Thanksgiving Day.

When they turned the corner and came into view, it became entirely clear how profoundly his wife had missed the mark. A tall and regal looking young woman was walking gracefully next to Logan in a pair of bright red bottomed Louboutins. She was dressed impeccably in a black sheath dress. Her dark hair was pinned up in a twist at the back of her head, exposing the exquisite - and no doubt expensive - earrings dangling from her ears.

She was a beautiful young woman, and she was entirely different from any of the other girls that Logan had brought home before. Yet, that wasn't the most surprising thing about her. The most surprising thing was the fact that she was so incredibly familiar. In fact, Mitchum would go as far as to say that they knew the girl - and her entire family - quite well.

"Monsieur et Madame Huntzberger, Bonjour! C'est un plaisir de vous revoir!" said Odette, her musical french voice floating through the air as she leaned forward to kiss the utterly shocked expression on Shira's face. "Thank you so much for 'aving me. I am so excited to 'ave my first Amèrican Thanksgiving! I hope you don't mind; I 'ave brought a bottle of Voignier for ze table."

* * *

TBC….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun! Haha. So, this was a pretty quick update because I already had about half of this chapter written. But, it was actually quite difficult to figure out how to cram so much content into one chapter between the different girls and Logan and Mitchum's relationship slowly repairing itself to AYITL levels. I hope I was able to pull it off well.
> 
> Thanks for reading. As always I truly appreciate a good review. :)


	8. The Favor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! So sorry for the delay with this update. Work got pretty hectic last week, so I wasn't able to spend as much time in my weekdays writing as I usually do. (Oops. You never heard that. Lol). I'm really excited to get this chapter published because it's the last chapter before The Big One™. Lol. In the interest of full disclosure, there might be a bit of a wait for that chapter as well because I will be obsessed with perfecting it. Though, I already do have a rough draft written, so we'll see what happens.
> 
> Enjoy!

**The Favor**

At thirty-four years old, there wasn't much that Logan could do that could still shock his father. It wasn't to say that Logan still wasn't able to take him off guard from time to time, or even surprise him occasionally. But, the surprises were more often than not good ones and usually related to work. The once ever present need to shock, disrupt, and, frankly, piss off his father in a uniquely personal way had long ago passed. It was part of the reason why he'd eventually asked Logan to rejoin the family business in the first place.

He'd grown up. He was a proper adult at this point in his life, far past the rebellious, reckless, and even secretive days of his youth. Being forced to succeed on his own out in California had changed him. He was far more responsible both professionally and personally. He didn't take as many risks. Overall, Mitchum knew what to expect from him. He knew what to expect from his work. He knew what to expect from his personal life.

At least… he thought he did.

When Mitchum had hopped on a plane to London the previous afternoon, he'd expected to have a pretty routine trip. His schedule was packed tightly, consisting of a couple meetings to attend at the office, a quick appearance at a fundraiser for The British Heart Foundation, tickets to _Amadeus_ at The National, and, of course, the informal - but important - lunch meeting that currently brought him to the prized restaurant that he just so happened to own.

He expected to walk through the door of the fine dining establishment and spend his afternoon as he always did when he made an appearance. He would schmooze and mingle with the guests. He would send bottles of wine to tables hosting familiar faces, particularly familiar faces that he wanted something from. He'd get sent samplers of experimental appetizers from the kitchen all afternoon until he eventually sat down to feast his eyes upon a delicious steak.

Never, however, did he imagine that he would be feasting his eyes on the particular sight in front of him.

When he had first noticed the familiar head of blonde hair seated at the table at the center of the room, he hadn't thought twice about it. Logan was just as big a fan as he was of taking advantage of the perks that came with having an ownership stake in a Michelin Star restaurant. In fact, Logan visited the place far more often than he did. And, considering the geographic indications, it only made sense that he did. It was a favorite spot of his for business lunches.

At first that's what he thought he was witnessing. The smartly dressed woman sitting across from him had an undeniably professional air about her, and in profile she bore an uncanny resemblance to Jennifer Finchley, the editor of their newly acquired culture magazine _The Londoner._ However, when she turned her head and Mitchum got a good look at her face, he realized immediately that the woman sitting across from his son was not Jennifer Finchley.

She was not Jennifer Finchley at all.

"Well I know Mitchum agrees with me!" a booming voice sounded to his left.

Mitchum was suddenly jolted back to reality by a round of laughter and a firm and friendly hand on his shoulder. Suddenly remembering that he was standing among a group of acquaintances in a restaurant in 2016 and not in a banquet hall in 2004, he threw back a hearty agreement. Though, in truth he had no idea what exactly it was that he was agreeing with. He'd stopped listening to the conversation several moments ago.

His attention was glued on them, stirring a feeling within him that he hadn't felt in a long time. Still, he remembered the feeling well. It was no wonder that he had an overwhelming sense that he was traveling backward in time. Emotionally, he was. He may as well have been standing in Richard and Emily Gilmore's living room among a group of alumni and their sons, fixated on the source of his son's own uncharacteristic fixation. The mix of confusion, trepidation, worry, and overall bewilderment was unlike anything Logan had ever made him feel before or since.

At least until now.

He tried not to think too much of it. Logan was an adult - they were both adults - and it really wasn't any of his business. Logan's personal life never had been any of his business. At least it hadn't been until he decided to marry the daughter of a business associate.

Mitchum wasn't a fool. He knew that Logan's relationship with Odette wasn't exactly a love story for the ages. The woman lived in an entirely different country for crying out loud, and she didn't seem to be all that eager to change that fact. He knew that their engagement was more of an arrangement of convenience. They were both getting older; they got along well enough; they were from the same world; they understood one another, and since the moment they had started seeing each other the pressure from both sides had been on. Odette's parents were ecstatic at the thought of her bagging a Huntzberger, and Shira was over the moon at the idea of having designer French grandchildren, the perfect accessories for her Yves Saint Laurent and Chanel collections.

He honestly didn't care what kind of… _arrangement_ the two of them had. He wasn't naive enough to think that they didn't have one. With as separate as their lives were, and the fact that Odette was… well… French….it was pretty inevitable that they did. He wasn't all that surprised that Logan was seeing other women. Odette herself was probably seeing other men. But the woman sitting across from the table from his son wasn't just another woman.

She was _the_ woman.

There was a difference. A difference that couldn't be overstated.

Still, he couldn't presume anything. His relationship with his son was better than it had been in years, but Logan was still never going to confide in him. They were never going to be _close._ His life outside of the office was almost entirely a mystery to him and probably always would be. For all he knew it was a friendly lunch. They were out in public in broad daylight after all. It didn't exactly speak of two people trying to hide something. And, surely Logan wasn't so stupid to bring the woman he was having an affair with to this specific restaurant on a day when he knew Mitchum was in town. At least he hoped he wasn't. It could be nothing.

Yet, as Logan brought a glass of wine to his lips, Mitchum saw something that dashed all of his hopes that the meeting between the two of them was _friendly._ It was still possible that it was friendly to _her._ But, it wasn't to Logan. He might claim that it was. He might deny until he was blue in the face. But, Mitchum would always know that it wasn't.

The smile that overwhelmed his face as she continued to talk and gesticulate across from him spoke louder than any words he could possibly say about the matter. The way the light in his eyes sparkled as he laughed at her story was unlike any expression he had seen on his son's face in… well in nearly a decade. It was the expression that had been so noticeably absent when he'd brought Rachel home to meet them. And it was still absent now every time he saw him with Odette.

It was an expression that he himself hadn't been able to muster in near forty years. And he recognized it when he saw it.

He wasn't sure what came over him. Maybe it was his natural investigative instinct. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe he had just completely lost his mind. But the next thing he knew he was bidding a friendly goodbye to the group of men gathered around him and he was moving his way toward the focus of his attention.

As he drew closer and closer to the table, the voices of his son and his companion grew clearer and he began to wonder what exactly he should expect to hear from their conversation. He was highly aware of the fact that he might hear something that he didn't want to hear. It was one thing to quietly suspect that his son was sleeping with the woman he wanted to marry behind his current fiance's back. It was another to know beyond a fraction of a doubt and have to continue to sit through Thanksgiving dinners with the couple as if he was none the wiser.

That line of thought momentarily made him stop to consider whether or not continuing on his current course of action was a good idea after all. Yet, he didn't turn back. At this point he was in too deep. His mind was too consumed with all the different possibilities and implications of the event unfolding in front of him. And if he confronted Logan about it later rather than merely stopping by to say hello now, it would be obvious that he was suspicious.

Thankfully, as the young woman's words started to take firmer shape in his ears, his fears that the conversation was deeply personal were wiped away. It still didn't take away his concern that something deeper was happening between the two of them, but it did give him a less awkward way of casually inserting himself into the conversation.

Bolstered in his mission, he grabbed a chair from a nearby empty table and walked toward them with purpose.

"...but Conde Nast _asked_ for this meeting. Months ago. This came from _them._ "

Mitchum slammed the chair down he was holding next to his son, sending a loud clatter through the air and startling the both of them. Logan's head snapped over to him, and a contained yet somewhat seething look appeared on his face.

"Conde Nast? Procrastinators supreme." he said.

He watched as the young woman's face melted into an indecipherable expression. It wasn't quite clear if she was pained or frightened, startled or embarrassed, angry or ashamed. Whatever it was, however, it wasn't good. And, as was usually always the case with them, it _was_ clear that she did not want him there.

"May I?" he asked his son, reaching down to the plate of french fries sitting between them as he started to sit down.

"Help yourself." Logan replied, stiffly.

His presence had clearly ruined the mood. Though, considering the history between them he couldn't read too much into that fact. His presence had always ruined her mood. It didn't necessarily mean that there was anything unseemly going on. Again, it could still be nothing more than a friendly encounter. So Mitchum carried on being exactly that. Friendly.

"How you doin', Rory!?" he asked, jovially, once he'd finished munching on the perfectly crisp potato in his mouth. "Long time no see!"

"It's... been a very long time…" Rory agreed, tripping over her words ever so slightly.

A long time indeed. A quick run over the math put it at just about nine years since he had seen her. And, funnily enough, he remembered the moment well. It was during the aftermath of Logan's failed business venture. She had answered the door to his New York apartment one afternoon, and he had barreled past her to start yelling at his son for not getting off his ass and fixing his mess. He'd left in a huff, leaving her standing quietly in his wake, never expecting that it would be the last time he lay eyes on the girl.

It was the first of a long list of events that he'd never expected. He never expected Logan to quit his job and move to California. He never expected Rory to refuse his hand in marriage. He never expected three years to pass before he spoke to Logan again. He never expected the long healing process it took for Logan to start working for him again. And he definitely never expected to see the two of them sitting at a table across from each other so casually all these years later.

The last time Logan had even mentioned her name, it had been a mere slip of the tongue. He'd been drunk. Mourning the loss of an entirely different girlfriend…. Sort of. As far as he was aware, until this moment that was the last time either one of them had thought of or spoken of Rory Gilmore.

"I didn't know you two were still in touch."

Mitchum gestured between the two of them and looked over his shoulder back at Logan. He could feel the light and friendly expression slip from his face as he tore his gaze away from Rory and redirected it at his son. The comment was pointed, and he wanted to subtly communicate as much. But, Logan's eyes were glued on Rory's, and he remained calm and collected.

"Rory was passing through town on a job, and I begged her to have lunch," he explained, effortlessly. It sounded plausible enough, but the tension in the air was simply too thick for his suspicions to be culled. And it still didn't explain just when exactly Rory had reentered his life in such a capacity.

"Hmm," he hummed nonchalantly, grabbing another fry from the plate and turning his attention back to Rory. "Nothing better to do?"

Rory laughed at his teasing little dig at Logan, but Mitchum knew better than to believe that she was actually amused by him. He'd been born into a world of forced smiles and fake laughter. He knew when a person was putting up a front. And, honestly, she didn't even seem to be trying that hard to hide it.

"He did beg," she replied with a shrug.

Mitchum thought momentarily about pressing them on the matter further, but ultimately decided that would be a terrible idea. So, he let it go, doubling down on his original instinct to carry on in a manner as friendly as possible. He didn't have much common ground with Rory Gilmore. But they did have one crucial and important shared interest in life. One topic that he knew was a safe bet.

"So…. what about Conde Nast?" he asked. "Are they dicking you around?"

"No," Rory answered firmly. "Just um… lots of postponements."

"You want me to make a call?"

"To… Conde Nast?"

The girl looked absolutely flabbergasted by the offer. Why, though, Mitchum couldn't exactly understand. Making a phone call like that was as simple as picking up the phone to call his wife… in fact in many ways it was a lot less painful. He hadn't even thought about the offer before it had tumbled out of his mouth. He'd done far more for people he knew far less. In fact, he'd always been somewhat surprised at the fact that she'd never attempted to use him as a contact before. He supposed she had too much pride. But to him it just seemed stupid.

"I could set a meeting. Make it stick," he explained with a slight shake of his head. "It's no problem."

"No… that's okay…" she answered in a tone somewhere between amusement and bewilderment. "Thank you, Mr. Huntzberger."

Stupid indeed.

It was strange, because in many ways Rory was so drastically far from stupid. She was definitely the smartest girl Logan had ever brought home. She was bright and witty. She was a decent writer. He couldn't understand why she had always been so unwilling to play the game the way it needed to be played. She either still hadn't gotten over her grudge, or she was too much of an idealist to see how the world really worked. Merit was the ultimate American myth. The truly successful people knew that.

"So what brings you into town?" he asked, changing the subject again.

Rory went to answer, the look on her face undeniably uncomfortable. Her eyes flicked downward as if searching for a response. But, much to her visible relief, Logan jumped in with a response before she had the chance to speak.

"She's working on a book proposal," he explained while lifting his glass of wine from the table. "Co-writing with Naomi Shropshire."

"Noami Shropshire," Mitchum said with an amused and somewhat concerned laugh. If that was truly the reason for her visit, he definitely didn't envy the girl. In fact, he momentarily considered ordering her another bottle of wine.

He knew the woman. Not very well, but he'd had the distinct pleasure of attending a number of parties where she had made her presence known, and he'd heard stories from friends and peers in the business regarding her legendary inability to meet deadlines, write consistently intelligible work, or even finish all of her pieces.

The woman was no doubt fun and interesting, her commentary on the London social scene had a charm and wit that reminded him - and many others for that matter - somewhat of Nora Ephron. He supposed that partially explained some of her success. But, Mitchum knew Nora as well. He knew her _quite_ well for that matter. And Naomi Shropshire was no Nora Ephron. For starters, Nora Ephron never had a problem getting through the work day without drinking herself to oblivion. She saved that for the times when it was appropriate.

He supposed it made sense that Naomi Shropshire was looking for a co-writer of sorts. The name she had made for herself as an interesting and biting commentator years ago was quickly getting overshadowed by her more recent exploits. He wouldn't be surprised if in a few years time, the public would forget that she used to write for The Times all together. She needed to start getting her career back on track soon before she lost it entirely. The only problem was he wasn't sure if she had the discipline - or the sobriety - to achieve that alone.

"Have some hangover medication ready…" he continued with a laugh.

"She's a character," Rory replied with a nod. "But that's what makes her unique."

It wasn't what made her unique. It was what made her a drunk. But, Mitchum wasn't going to argue the matter. He was sincere in his offer to make a phone call for her, mostly because it really wasn't any skin off his teeth whatsoever and he was trying to be friendly. But he wasn't _actually_ all that interested in her career. He was far more interested in his own, and it just so happened that at that moment, a currently important player in it - the entire reason why he'd even come to this restaurant in the first place - popped into view over by the bar.

"Ugh, I gotta go," he said, standing up from the table.

Yet, as eager as he was to get around to the business that had actually brought him there, he still wasn't quite ready to leave the table. There were still too many questions he had rolling around in his head. He still wasn't sure what to think, and that was a feeling that never settled well with Mitchum. He may not always want to involve himself with what was going on, but he still liked to _know_ what was going on. He prided himself on being in the know. Not being in the know was unacceptable to him. It made him feel like other people had the power. And Mitchum liked to be the one holding the power.

"Um, hey…" he said, quickly, before he made his way to the bar. "The party next week for your uncle...is Odette coming?"

Only an idiot wouldn't be able to feel the tension that fell over the table at the drop of her name. It had been an intentional drop, a deliberate and strategic one. A way to test the waters. To see how each one of them would react.

"She will be there," Logan said, his eyes quickly flicking up at Rory to observe her response. Rory looked down for a moment, only looking back up at him when Mitchum addressed her one final time.

"He gets engaged to a girl who lives in another country," he said, pointing at Logan. "Smart girl."

Rory left out a breath of air that couldn't quite qualify as a laugh, though she tried to pass it off as such. It was as fake and as forced as the first one, but this one seemed to have another emotion laced through it. She looked almost pained. Pained, but not surprised by any means.

He wasn't sure what to make of that.

"And Conde Nast?" he said, finally ready to end the conversation once and for all. "The offer stands."

"You're very nice, thank you," she replied with a nod.

The comment stopped Mitchum in his tracks for a moment. He knew it was merely an extension of her forced amiability, but it entertained him nonetheless. Instead of leaving right away, he hung back for a moment, considering her. He looked down at her with an amused smirk on his face and his hands in his pockets.

People didn't tend to call Mitchum _nice -_ even when they themselves were trying very hard to seem fact, he was having a difficult time trying to recall the last time that someone - _anyone_ \- had described him in such a manner. If it had happened, he was sure that anyone uttering it was merely trying to kiss his ass or pull the wool over his eyes. He wouldn't expect anyone to say such a thing to him for any other reason. He _wasn't_ nice. And he _certainly_ didn't expect Rory Gilmore to address him as such. It wasn't often that she looked at him with anything other than contempt and disdain, and he hadn't really expected that to change, even with an entire decade between them.

"I believe that's the first time anyone's ever said that to me," he said with a smirk. "I mean someone… not sticking a shiv in my back."

Logan at least looked somewhat amused by the comment, though it was very likely a show. The mood definitely didn't feel all that lighthearted at all, and Rory's face was solemn and entirely humorless. She clearly wanted him to leave, and he was no longer going to deny her the satisfaction.

"See ya," he said.

He turned his back on them and started walking away from the table to the bar.

For the moment he decided to put the thought of what exactly was going on between his son and the young woman behind him. He had too much going on to spend the rest of the day obsessing over Logan's personal business. And, even if he didn't, it was really no concern to him as long as he was discreet enough to keep his relationship with Odette from imploding to the point of destroying decades worth of networking and handshaking in Paris.

But, when his eyes unintentionally met Rory's once again across the room and the mournful look appeared on her face, he realized that it would likely monopolize far more of his mental space that he would like it to for the rest of the day.

That feeling started stirring in his stomach again - the one that had overcome him from the very moment that he recognized her face across the room. He'd underestimated her all those years ago. He'd underestimated _them._ He'd underestimated the depth of his son's affections for the girl. He'd convinced himself not to get too concerned with Logan's infatuation with her, certain that it would fade and ultimately that it wouldn't amount to anything.

He'd been wrong.

And Mitchum was rarely fooled twice.

Eventually, however, he was able to put the issue out of his mind. His meeting succeeded in monopolizing his attention for the rest of his afternoon. And by the time he met up with Logan again at the end of the day, his son had carried on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Surely there would have been some feeling of guilt hanging over him had he believed that he'd been caught in something, or even an outright request for Mitchum to not mention anything about what he'd seen.

When he went home at the end of his trip, he'd managed to convince himself that he had read too much into the encounter. After a handful of days had passed, he'd almost completely forgotten about it. His brother's retirement party had gone off without a hitch. Odette had been there, as charming and delightful as she ever was. Nothing seemed to be amiss between the two of them. And Logan continued to seem entirely unbothered.

It wasn't until several days later that Mitchum received confirmation that the feeling that had been bubbling under his skin that afternoon hadn't been unfounded, and it had come with a single phone call in the middle of cocktail hour at the often frequented bar in the lobby of his office building in Hartford.

"Huntzberger," he answered, not even bothering to check the caller ID. There was a slight delay in the person's response, not quite long enough to prompt Mitchum to attempt a second greeting, but just long enough to establish an awkward tension at the offset.

"Hey…" the voice eventually came.

"Hey," Mitchum responded, somewhat surprised at the familiar sound of his son's voice on the other end of the phone.

It wasn't often that Logan called him out of the blue. He typically always tried an email or a text message first, and more often than not the phone calls he did receive from him were expected. This one, however, was not. He wasn't sure what the phone call was about, and judging by the prolonged silence on the other end of the line, he wasn't sure Logan did either.

" _You_ called _me_ , Logan…" he said after a couple painful seconds of listening to nothing but his son breathing.

"Right," he said. "I know. Sorry… I just uh…"

His son trailed off into a silence all over again. Mitchum could almost feel nerves radiating through the cell signal coming from the other side of the Atlantic. Typically, he might be annoyed that his time was being wasted, but there was a far bigger part of himself that was intrigued by Logan's strange behavior. He couldn't remember the last time Logan had been _nervous_ when speaking to him. Impatient, annoyed, frustrated, angry, indifferent - he was used to Logan being any one of those things when speaking to him. But nervous was something else entirely.

"That other week at lunch when you offered to set up a meeting for Rory at Conde Nast... is that… are you still willing to do that?"

"Um…" he said, admittedly taken off guard. The dread he'd felt on that day was once again starting to settle into his gut. Though, he didn't want to let on to the fact. "Yeah. Sure. Of course."

"Great," said Logan. "Great. That's… that's great. Thanks. I appreciate it."

_He_ appreciated it.

"It's no problem," Mitchum replied.

He wasn't lying. It wasn't a problem. It hadn't been a problem when he made the offer, and it wasn't a problem now. The problem, if it could be defined as such, were the implications around Logan asking him to follow through with the offer rather than Rory herself. And after so much time had passed. Time in which Mitchum had already started to forget about it entirely. Time in which he'd started to assume that their little lunch meeting was just a one off event. Time…

He suddenly thought of the time.

Looking down at his watch, he realized how late in the day it really was. In London, it was the wee hours of the morning, not exactly a time when most people choose to be awake let alone make casual phone calls.

"Logan…" he said, his tone strained and heavy. "What is it there? Two in the morning?"

"Uh, yeah. I uh…." he could almost hear his son kicking himself for not thinking his actions through. "I had a meeting with China."

It was a lie. Mitchum knew it was a lie, and he was pretty sure Logan knew that he knew it was a lie. If Logan had a meeting with China, he would almost certainly be aware of it. And while it might explain why he was awake at this hour, it still didn't explain why he had chosen this moment to make this particular phone call.

"Right," he said. "And you just… thought this would be a good time to ask this particular question?"

"I was up," Logan responded. "I knew you'd be up…"

He was left once again with a choice about whether or not to press Logan on the matter further. He thought briefly that it might be the right thing to do. The truth was, he was worried. He was worried about the path his son was walking down. He was worried about the ramifications his behavior might have on the business if he was found out. And he was worried about Logan.

As he'd thought before, there was a difference between seeing another woman and seeing _the_ other woman. It was a fire he shouldn't be playing with. It wasn't just a small little flame that might lightly brush his skin. It was a raging inferno that might swallow him entirely. Ultimately, however, he said nothing. If Logan liked to play with fire, it was only because Mitchum himself had handed him a box of matches and a bottle of lighter fluid when he was young.

He wrapped the conversation up quickly, assuring him that he would call Bob Sauerberg in the morning. Logan thanked him one more time before hanging up, and Mitchum spent the entire trek back to his table convincing himself that he was making the right move by choosing not to say anything about what was so blatantly obvious. As he sat back down, a hand belonging to the young and gorgeous brunette next to him discreetly found its way to his thigh underneath the table, and in that moment he decided that he had.

Who was Mitchum to lecture Logan about the dangers of infidelity? Mitchum was a great many things. He was comfortable with that fact. But being a hypocrite wasn't something that sat very well with him.

With that justification in mind, he tried his best to bury the still lingering feeling of dread deep down in his chest. He forced himself to ignore his better instincts and believe that it was the same thing. That Logan carrying on with the Gilmore girl was no worse than Mitchum finding a hotel room where he and his newly found friend could spend the rest of their evening. He refused to listen to the voice telling him otherwise. The one reminding him that the random girl sitting next to him was just that - a random girl.

She wasn't a woman his age. She didn't have greying auburn hair around her temples or freckles across her cheeks. They hadn't gone to Yale together. They hadn't lived together for two years. He'd never loved her. He'd never imagined spending the rest of his life with her. She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't… _her._ She was entirely incapable of burning him.

And even as Mitchum continued to convince himself that not sticking his nose too far in his son's business was the right course of action, he couldn't help a haunting feeling from creeping up within him. The feeling that, as a father, it might actually be his job to slap his kid's hand away from an open flame.

* * *

TBC…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all liked it! As I said before, one more chapter to go. And, actually, I have decided that I am going to add an epilogue onto this. So, really, there are two more chapters coming. Sorry again about the wait. Please please leave a review! xo


	9. The One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys. This chapter was the entire reason I wrote this entire fic. I am really excited and also a bit nervous to post it. Anyway... I really hope it doesn't disappoint. Thank you so much for reading and for all of your reviews!

**The One**

The annual fundraising gala for the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center's Department of Pediatrics was such a part of Mitchum's yearly calendar, that it might as well have been Christmas, Thanksgiving, or his birthday. And funnily enough, it just so happened to occur at the time of year coinciding with Christmas, Thanksgiving, and his birthday.

It wasn't something he missed. Even with the hectic schedule of the holiday season, it wasn't something he missed. It was the one fundraising event that really mattered to him. It was the one donation that held far more meaning than a simple line item on his tax forms. For years, The Huntzberger Publishing Group had been one of their largest donors. Their logo was splashed all over the hall. It was on the photo backdrops at the entrance of the building. It was printed on the programs and on bidding sheets for a handful of items in the silent auction.

Of course, there was a reason why this particular organization held such an important place in Mitchum's heart, and it wasn't that he disproportionately cared about children getting cancer. The source of his passion had nothing to do with the children. The source of his passion was something else entirely.

It wasn't that he _didn't_ care about kids getting cancer. He wasn't a psychopath. He cared. He genuinely supported the organization and was happy to be able to contribute in such a meaningful way to something so important. It was just that he would be lying to himself if he tried to claim that his interest in their particular mission came from nothing more than a pure idealistic altruistic instinct. As was the case with most of the things Mitchum cared about, it was far more personal than that.

The evening always felt a little bit strange. While it was the one fundraiser that he felt passionate about attending, attending it always left him feeling strangely hollow and empty. Melancholy. Distracted. Not that he ever let anyone know.

"Dad!"

The sharp loud greeting startled him out of the daze he'd found himself in, and when he looked up from the phone that he hadn't really even been looking at in the first place, he was met with the confused and concerned face of his son standing next to his seat at the table.

He looked good. Or better rather. When Mitchum had last seen him at Thanksgiving just a couple weeks earlier, there was something strangely off about Logan. His hair was longer than it had been in a while. There was a trace of stubble on his jaw, and he seemed… off. Tired. Almost sad really. He hadn't been able to put his finger on why, but it was noticeable.

At least for now, Logan seemed to be in better shape. He still looked tired, but his hair was neater and his face freshly shaven. Yet, there was still a certain… melancholy about him. Not that Mitchum had a right to judge.

"Hey, there you are!" he greeted, standing and slipping his phone back into his pocket.

"Been standing here for a few seconds, actually," said Logan. He raised his eyebrow in slight concern, but Mitchum casually brushed it off.

"Sorry. Long day at the office," he said. "I zoned out there for a second thinking about that KPI report..."

"Don't shoot the messenger," Logan responded with a defensive shrug.

"I'm not," said Mitchum. He knew that the data Logan sent him just before the end of the day wasn't actually his fault. And, in truth, it hadn't actually been what he was thinking about in the first place. Though, Logan didn't know that. "We'll talk about it later."

His eyes drifted over to his son's left and fell upon a far prettier sight than his somewhat strangely downtrodden son. Odette was standing next to him in a tight fitting nude dress embroidered with white and gold beads. It had thin straps and a plunging neckline along with a long slit stopping at her mid thigh. Her raven colored hair was gathered at the back of her head in a mass of perfectly coiffed curls with some strands falling around her beautifully made up face.

It wasn't the first time Mitchum had looked at her and thought that she belonged on the cover of Vogue. Even in her mid-thirties, she was as stunning as a twenty-two year old model with the body to match. How Logan had managed to convince her to marry him, he wasn't entirely sure. Though, he supposed the kid wasn't that bad to look at either. Not that Mitchum had all that much to do with those particular genes.

"Odette," he said, greeting her with a kiss on the cheek. "You look stunning as always."

"Merci, Mitchum," she responded with a charming smile. "It's lovely to see you again."

Logan slipped his hand on the small of her back and gently ushered her to a chair next to him at the table. The two of them sat down and Mitchum followed suit, knowing by a quick glance at his watch that the speeches were about to begin. It was the worst part of the evening, but he'd thankfully had the forethought to stock up on two glasses of scotch before sitting down at the table.

"Where's Mom?" Logan asked, looking around the room for a head of blonde hair.

"She's home sick," said Mitchum.

"Oh, how awful," said Odette. "I hope she's alright."

"Oh, I'm sure she's fine," said Mitchum as he took a sip from his first glass. "Her primary symptom seems to be a case of not wanting to drive to New York."

Next to him, Logan rolled his eyes. He couldn't really blame him for being annoyed with his mother. He'd flown across an ocean to be here. Mitchum had requested it, wanting to make sure that both he and Odette made their faces known in the New York social scene rather than sequestering themselves too much in Europe. Many of the people here this evening would be guests at their wedding, and he wasn't entirely sure that Logan had even met all of them. To say that his son wasn't all that happy about coming was an understatement, and the idea that his mother had flaked out at the last moment was rightfully a little frustrating.

"I'm sure it's more than that…" Odette responded, sweetly.

He wasn't sure if it was the accent, or simply that he didn't know the girl all that well, but Mitchum genuinely couldn't tell if Odette was being sincere. Anyone who spent any significant amount of time with Shira would know that this behavior was entirely in line with her personality. Claiming otherwise was either an understandable ignorance of the woman's selfishness, or an egregious display of stupidity. Mitchum simply smiled and changed the subject.

"So two trips to the States in less than a month, huh?" he asked. "You must be feeling like an honorary citizen at this point."

Odette smiled and reached over to place her hand on Logan's arm. The ornate ring on her finger glistened in the light and she smiled at him. Logan, however, merely twitched his lips upward ever so slightly in response to the affectionate gesture, his eyes remaining empty and lifeless.

"Yes," she responded, ignoring or not noticing the lack of enthusiasm in her fiance's gaze. "I keep joking that we should stop looking for a house in London and move here. Between Thanksgiving, this, Christmas, and that meeting Logan flew in for in October, we are spending all our time here lately."

"Meeting?" Mitchum asked.

There was no meeting in October. Even if there was some kind of important meeting in October, there likely wouldn't have been a reason for Logan to fly in for it. He honestly didn't know what the girl was talking about, but the sudden panicked look in his son's eye told him that he better pretend that he did.

"Oh!" he said, suddenly. "Yes. Right. Where's my head? Things have been so hectic lately. It feels like that was ages ago, not weeks ago…"

Odette seemed to be satisfied with his response, but Mitchum wasn't feeling very satisfied at all. The room around him suddenly went quiet as the chairman began to speak, but he was unable to focus on anything other than the face of his son.

Odette's attention focused on the stage at the front of the hall, but Logan's gaze remained locked with his own. They sat there making eye contact for a few moments, a silent conversation transpiring between them. Both of them knew at that moment why Logan had apparently been in the States in October, but neither were going to say anything about it, especially with Odette sitting right there.

It wasn't that Mitchum was angry. Or even upset. He knew perfectly well what a hypocrite he would be to sit here and scold or condemn his son for his behavior. Still, he was surprised. He was surprised that it was _still_ going on all these months later. And, as he had been on the day he'd realized what was going on in the first place, he was concerned.

After a couple of seconds, Logan eventually broke eye contact with him, choosing to end the awkward moment between them in favor of looking down at his phone. He began typing something, and Mitchum decided to go ahead and focus in on the chairman, finding that he was about halfway through introducing a guest speaker for the evening.

"... currently the head of Pediatric Hematology/Oncology at Washington University School of Medicine. And we here at Sloan Kettering are so excited to be partnering with her as we begin clinical trials for the use of Car-T Cell Therapy in children with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia…"

A vibration in his pocket distracted him from the goings on of the event once again. He shifted a bit in his chair, reaching down to extract the device from his pocket, expecting to see a response to the text message that he himself had just sent off right before Logan had made his presence known. However, as he unlocked the screen, he was met with something that he wasn't expecting to see at all.

_**Logan Huntzberger** _

_**Today:** _ _7:38pm_

_It's over._

He stared at the screen for a moment, shocked not only that whatever affair had been going on between Logan and Rory Gilmore was over, but also that his son had actually told him about it. It was the most personal, secretive information Logan had actually confided in him in years. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to say in response, or if Logan even wanted him to say anything in response.

When he looked up from his phone, Logan's attention was focused toward the stage. He watched him for a few moments, observing how his knee was bouncing and he didn't seem to be focusing on much of anything specific. The haunted melancholy look in his eyes suddenly made sense, and he started thinking about the way that he'd forced a smile for Odette just moments prior. It was a look so different from the beaming smile he'd given that day at lunch.

Mitchum wondered if he would ever see that smile on his son's face again.

His heart actually broke at the thought, and he wondered how Logan had actually allowed this to happen. He wondered, not for the first time, what exactly had been going on between them and why it had been a secret. He wondered how his normally confident, borderline arrogant, son had convinced himself to keep such a thing in the shadows. He wondered why he was settling for Odette when he had the woman he truly loved sitting across from him at the lunch table. And he wondered just how exactly Rory had managed to keep such a hold on his heart for all these years.

But, as just three short words projected over the sound system, he was painfully reminded that he knew exactly how a single woman could have such an everlasting hold over a man's heart.

"Thank you, Bob."

At the sound of the voice, his heart dropped like a lead weight through his gut, through his knees, all the way down to the floor. The entire time his pulse still pounded in his ears. He could feel his breaths getting shallow. And his vision tunneled in on the woman standing on the stage as if he was looking through a telescope, everything in his periphery completely black. There was just a single point of focus. One that he couldn't look away from.

She began to speak, but he couldn't hear the words. The sound of her voice triggered so many other words in his mind, words that he had heard decades ago. In the moment, he was struggling to figure out what words she was actually saying, and what words were simply painful memories being dragged painfully across his mind in his somewhat dissociated state.

It was a shame. Because he was actually somewhat interested in Car-T research. They'd just published a story about it in The Standard, and he found it interesting. He'd been looking forward to finding out more about it. Though, tonight wasn't going to be that night.

He couldn't get his thoughts straight. He couldn't process what was happening. All these years of coming to this event, he'd never thought that this would happen. That this _could_ happen.

Or maybe he did…

He reached forward on the table, and downed the rest of his scotch, reaching for the second glass as soon as the first was gone and suddenly finding himself wishing that he would have gotten a third. The third had to wait. It had to wait through the painful entirety of her speech. It had to wait through dinner. Through dessert. Through more speeches and more thank yous and more presentations of checks.

And when he was finally done waiting, he found himself standing at the bar, facing her down in person for the first time in four decades.

"My God…" she said as she approached him, a wistful expression on her face. "Mitchum Huntzberger as I live and breathe…"

There was something about her voice that was so familiar and yet so foreign at the same time. There was something about her entire being that was so familiar and so foreign at the same time. Time, he supposed, had that effect on them all. It made strangers of the people who once knew you better than any other living soul.

She looked similar to how he'd always imagined her. Her hair was still long and thick. Though, it's light auburn color had started to be peppered with streaks of white. There were lines on forehead, ones that he always knew would wind up eventually with the way that she constantly furrowed her brow while she was working or studying. She wasn't as thin as she used to be, but then again neither was he. Age made most people a little softer. But, unlike him, she was still radiant.

"Elizabeth Hawkins," he replied, somehow managing to find his voice though how he wasn't sure. He lifted his glass of scotch to his lips and took a long sip, needing the drink to soothe the pounding in his chest and hide the tremors in his hands. "Or… well… It's probably not Hawkins anymore is it?"

I couldn't be. It was impossible. It pained him to think about it, but the idea that Elizabeth hadn't been able to move on with her life was unimaginable to him. He may have been stupid enough to let her go all those years ago, but a better man wouldn't be. A better man would know exactly what he had. And it probably hadn't taken her very long to find exactly that… a better man.

"Actually, it is," she said.

She took a step forward, sliding next to him and leaning against the bar. She dipped her fingers into the small little bowl of peanuts on the counter, and dropped a fingerfull of them into her palm before she started munching on them one by one. "It wasn't for a good period of time. But… it is again."

The rush of relief that Mitchum felt at those words simultaneously comforted and disgusted him. His selfishness was once again rearing its head. Once upon a time, he'd claimed to love her more than anyone on Earth, and yet he found himself standing here reveling in her pain, sickly relieved at the fact that she also hadn't been able to find happiness after all these years.

She truly was so much better off without him.

"I'm sorry," he lied.

"Don't be," she said with a sigh. "It was one of the best things I ever did. Everyone always apologizes… like it's something to be sad over. Like they don't realize how bad their lives would have to get before they would end it."

Mitchum understood. He understood far more than she realized. He'd been unhappily married for thirty-eight years. When he'd first met Shira, it was the first time in a year when he'd actually _felt_ something again. He'd become infatuated with her for being able to stir feelings in him again - to make him _want_ her. He'd mistaken it for love, convinced himself that he would be able to move on with her. He was wrong.

The beginning was... fine. Even happy at their best moments. The years before his father retired and he was actually living some semblance of a life that he wanted were fine. The days when he was writing and traveling to Iran and Uganda and Berlin and Haiti, or staying at home actually living in the newsroom rather than the boardroom, the days when he still felt like himself… those days were fine.

But, everything had changed when Elias stepped down. He stopped writing. He didn't have time. He was barely home. He sent his kids off to boarding schools and when they came home he barely recognized them. His wife started resenting him – the wife that he'd settled for - and instead of putting what little energy he had into fixing it he started sleeping around. She knew from the start. He knew she knew. But she never said anything about it, so he took it as taciturn permission.

In the times when he wasn't completely absent, he came down hard on his kids, especially Logan– hoping to prepare him for the reality of his life far more than his own father had. But, Logan only reacted by acting out and slowly and steadily growing to hate him more and more with each passing day. And the more his relationship with Logan deteriorated, the more his relationship with Shira crumbled as well.

Yet, even through all that, it had never gotten bad enough to actually leave her. As dysfunctional as his family life was… living with it was still a lot easier than blowing it apart.

Looking at Elizabeth, he took a moment to contemplate how different his life might have been. He thought of what it might have been like to be happy, to have a wife who actually loved him, who he loved in return by his side through the ups and downs of his life. But, it was no use entertaining that thought… they both had made their own lives over the last forty years and there was no changing it now.

He was still on the East Coast, running and growing his great-grandfather's Connecticut based newspaper business into the international media conglomerate it was today – with its main hubs now in New York and London. He was exactly what he was always expected to be, a captain of industry, a big fish in a big pond, a powerful man who would command any room that he walked into by his mere presence.

Elizabeth was settled in a modest midwestern city, putting her head down in her research to get her work done. She was a big fish in a small pond. But, then, she'd never needed or wanted to be anything else. She'd never needed or wanted the wealth or the status or the ego trips. She didn't need or want the glamour of New York City or a beach house in Martha's Vineyard. She wanted to help people. She wanted to cure children of life threatening illnesses. She didn't care where she did it, or what _kind_ of people she had at her side while she did.

"How's St. Louis?" he asked, no longer wanting to dwell on a world that didn't exist. He took another sip of his scotch, and the woman across from him sighed.

"Boring," she replied nonchalantly, prompting a chuckle to tumble from Mitchum's lips. "Lots of pulled pork and bad pizza. Although, I did spend most of my summer in my son-in-law's private suite in Busch stadium, so that was kind of nice."

Mitchum quirked an eyebrow at that statement. He was having a difficult time imagining her in a baseball stadium, or any sports arena for that matter. She used to leave the room any time he so much as put a game on the television, and at one point he remembered having to explain the difference between a homerun and a touchdown.

"Since when you do like baseball?" he asked.

"Since they drag you down the street and hang you from the Arch if you don't like baseball in St. Louis," she answered in a dry and somewhat annoyed tone. "Don't worry, it's a massive ruse."

Mitchum laughed out loud, a genuine and perhaps overly enthusiastic laugh. He couldn't help it. It was hardly the funniest thing he'd ever heard, but there was something about it that was so quintessentially… _Elizabeth_. The dry almost resentful way she'd resigned herself to the fate of living in a baseball town lined up perfectly with the woman he remembered. And the image of her sitting in a crowd full of sports fans pretending to be interested in what was happening when he knew she probably still didn't know the difference between a shortstop and a left fielder was an added delight.

He blinked for a long moment while he laughed, and when he opened his eyes again, his gaze landed on the sight of a very familiar young man standing a few feet behind Elizabeth at the bar. Logan was looking at him with a dumbfounded expression, and he suddenly felt the smile slip from his lips and the light leave his eyes.

He almost felt as if he'd been caught. He'd been caught _feeling,_ laughing in a way that his son had never seen him laugh before, in a way that he had caught Logan himself laughing just a few months ago. Logan had never seen him laugh like that. In fact, he almost wondered if Logan had ever seen him genuinely laugh at all.

He nodded at his son over Elizabeth's shoulders. Logan returned the gesture before taking two drinks from the bartender and walking toward his raven-haired fiancée on the other side of the room. He was still blown away by how stunning she was. She always looked stunning. She was young and thin and markedly… French. And Mitchum tried to shove down the uncomfortable feeling that stirred within him every time he made the observation that Logan just… didn't seem to care.

When Mitchum broke his attention and returned it to the woman before him, he noticed that her gaze had followed his. Her neck was turned in Logan's direction, and she was examining him with an interested and discerning look on her face.

"Your son?" she asked, turning her head back to him. She took a sip of the white wine in her glass. Mitchum blinked at her in surprise.

"Actually, yes," he said. As far as he was aware, Elizabeth didn't even know he had a son, let alone that he was here tonight. He wasn't sure how she'd managed to put that together from one single glance, but she had. Though, it wouldn't be the first time that Elizabeth's natural intelligence and perception far outweighed his own.

"I thought so," she replied with a nod.

She made another quick glance toward Logan. She tilted her head a bit as she looked him over and pursed her lips. And, when she turned back to look at him, there was a somewhat mournful smile on her face.

"He looks like you," she said, softly.

Mitchum chortled.

It was the first time anyone had ever said that Logan _looked_ like him. They had their similarities. They were both charming in their own ways, good at double talk, savvy. They both had a reckless streak in their youth and too much moxie for their own good. But as far as he was concerned, the similarities ended there. Hair and jaws aside, they didn't look like one another much at all, and they were entirely different people in a plethora of other ways.

"Logan? Really?" he asked. "I always thought he looked more like…"

Shira. He looked like Shira, but he trailed off before he could say her name out loud. Though, there wasn't much of a point to it. Any idiot would know where he was going with that statement, and Elizabeth was no idiot. She also was never one to brush over uncomfortable realities, or ignore the elephant in a room.

"Your wife?" she asked.

Mitchum didn't respond in the affirmative, but Elizabeth wasn't waiting for it. She was already humming in disapproval at his assessment and shaking her head in the negative. Her attention was fixated on Logan. She was analyzing him, studying him the way that she would look at marrow cells under a microscope.

"Hmm. No…" she said. There was something behind her eyes as she studied him, something deep and reflective. It was as if she wasn't just looking at Logan's face. She was looking at Logan's entire being. She was observing everything that he was and imagining everything that he could have _been_ … in another lifetime…

"I mean… he managed to avoid the nose…"

Another loud belt of laugher burst from his lips at the slightly disparaging comment. It had been so long since anyone had the balls to say something like that to him. But Elizabeth insulted him with such ease and masked delight. The sound of her putting him down actually filled him with something that felt like… joy.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt joy.

"But, I definitely see you in there," she continued. "A you from forty years ago, granted, but… definitely you."

When she tore her eyes off of Logan and looked at him again, he was almost knocked off his feet with the weight of those forty years. Forty years ago she got on a plane to Mayo, leaving her acceptance letters from Columbia and NYU in the trash. She said it would be easier that way. A clean break.

There was nothing clean about it.

"Well don't tell _him_ that," he said, clearing his throat and trying to banish those thoughts back to the recesses of his mind. "Unless you want to make an enemy this evening."

Something in her eyes changed at that comment. Her pupils contracted and she frowned. Her entire being seemed to fill with a haunting melancholy. It wasn't the normal reaction. The animosity between himself and Logan was the subject of frequent jokes between family members and colleagues. He made them so often that he didn't even give them a second thought. It was how he downplayed it – made it seem more tolerable than it was. Most people played along.

But most people hadn't stayed up with him into the late hours of the night and early hours of the morning, running their fingers through his hair as he reflected on how he never wanted to be anything like his own father, and promised that he never would.

It was just another of the many promises he'd made to her that he'd broken.

"I dunno. Maybe I will," she said, forcing the conversation back into a teasing repartee. "I used to have quite a talent for accumulating Huntzberger enemies. Maybe I should add this... _Logan_ Huntzberger to my collection,"

"I think most of your collection has passed at this point."

"So they need replacing. Perfect," she quipped with a smirk and another sip of wine.

Once again, Mitchum found his face lighting up in a way that it hadn't in forty years. It was so natural. So effortless. So genuine. The way that she was able to see through him to his very core and somehow pull a smile out of the pain that resided there was unlike anything he'd ever experienced with anyone else. It was why he'd fallen in love with her.

She was the only woman who knew who he actually was. And the only person who wasn't appalled by what she knew.

"Do you want to dance?"

The question came out unbidden. It rose from inside of him without conscious thought. It was like breathing. His body just knew that he needed it to survive. He needed to know what it was like to have her in his arms again like his lungs needed oxygen in his lungs.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Mitch."

Elizabeth's eyes flitted down to the gold ring on his left finger and then back up to his. She shrugged, moving her shoulders up in the subtlest of gestures and shaking her head. Not a single explicit word, and yet she'd said everything that she needed to say. She'd always been a woman of few words. She didn't need them.

He was married. They were a thousand miles and forty years apart. They were entirely different people now. There was no use pretending otherwise.

"I should… get back to my table," she said, halfway to a whisper.

A silence settled over them as Mitchum nodded, unable to form the words 'goodbye' and let her walk away from him again. But, just like the first time, she didn't bother to wait for his response. She didn't wait for him to ask her to stay. She just went – because she'd already made up her mind and nothing he said would have changed it anyway.

"Lizzie…" he said, trying to keep the crack out of his voice as she turned around and walked away from him.

She paused at the sound and turned around to face him again. He savored the moment, promising himself to remember every detail of it, the way her hair fell down to her shoulders in a subtle wave, the way her crimson dress hugged every curve of her body – curves that hadn't been there forty years ago but somehow made her even more beautiful than she was at twenty-two – the way the freckles that he knew covered her nose and cheeks were starting to peek out underneath the layer of make-up on her face. He wanted to remember it forever.

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Do you…"

He trailed off, the words getting caught in his throat. For a moment, he wasn't sure if he was brave enough to say them. He'd face down mobs, gunfire, massive buildings crumbling to the ground blocks away from him, but a single question caught in the recesses of his throat was bringing him to his knees.

"Do you ever…" he continued. "Wish that...that things…"

She didn't make him finish. A somber look passed over her face, but she simply shrugged. Her head slowly started to shake back and forth, and she swallowed.

"I love my kids," she said. "I wouldn't trade them for anything."

For the second time that evening, the world around him went out of focus. The voices of the people mingling around him and the music coming from the stage turned into an echoing cacophony of indecipherable sound, almost as if he was listening to it all from underneath the surface of a pool of water. The images around him blurred, and he could feel Elizabeth getting further and further away from him.

Through it all, however, he could see the image of his son standing across the room clear as day, and others started flashing before his eyes unbidden. The day he was born. The look of awe and wonder that used to light up his face on Christmas morning. The feel of him sitting on his shoulders at Yankee stadium. The sight of him reeling in his first fish, grilling his first lobster, standing on the tips of his feet to steer the boat.

In that moment, he was suddenly overcome with an all encompassing feeling of epiphany and shame. He'd spent forty years mourning the loss of the love of his life, drowning in regret for pushing her away, disappointing her, breaking his promises to her, taking her for granted. He'd been so obsessed with thinking about all the things he would do differently if he had a second chance, that he never stopped to realize that he was still doing it.

How close had he come to losing Logan the same way he'd lost Elizabeth? How close had those three years come to being forty?

He wasn't able to think of much else for the rest of the evening. And as one drink after another found its way to his lips, he thought of less and less all together. He drank himself numb. He drank himself into a stupor that found him hours later in a hotel room, unsure of how exactly it was that he arrived there. Unsure of everything. Where he was. What he was doing…

"Dad?"

A gravely and confused voice filled his ear, and he realized that he had his phone in his hand. The phone that he had picked up and dialed, completely devoid of consideration for anything. What time it was. What he even had to say. Whatever time it was, it was late. He'd been sleeping. Mitchum should probably be sleeping too…

"Dad?" the voice repeated, slightly panicked this time. "What's going on? It's… three in the morning. Are you okay?"

Three in the morning. Was it really three in the morning? He cast his eyes over to the clock on the wall across the room, blinked it into focus, and he realized that it was, in fact, three o'clock in the morning. He wasn't sure when that happened. The last time he'd looked at the time it was just past eleven. And that seemed like it was only a few minutes ago.

"I'm… I'm fine. I just... I needed to talk - to talk to you."

He leaned forward in his seat, and wiped a hand across his face. His palm settled over his eyes, blocking out the sights around him. He was hoping that not looking might help the room to stop spinning. But, closing his eyes only seemed to make it worse.

"At three in the morning?" Logan asked. "If this is about that KPI report, can it wait until tomorrow?"

"Did I ever tell you that I used to write fiction?"

The question was met with a long bout of silence. Behind his still closed eyes, he could almost picture the look of utter bewilderment and confusion spread across his son's face. And as more time passed with Logan unable to think of an intelligible reply to the question that had been so out of left field, Mitchum decided to carry on.

"I got published in The Atlantic once. In 1977," he explained. "But… it wasn't me. I mean it _was_ me. I got published. But it was a different name. I used a different name. I used to do that a lot. Not get published in The Atlantic. That only happened once. But write I mean. I used to write a lot. A _lot._ I was a good writer, you know."

"Yeah, I know, Dad…" Logan replied, tired.

" _You're_ a good writer," he said. "You got that from me. But you don't write. You never wrote. Until you did. And then it was always great. It was always great."

A small pause fell over them once again, but it passed by rather quickly and Mitchum soon heard the shuffle of sheets and the sound of footsteps on the other line.

"Dad…" said Logan. "Are you drunk?"

He was drunk, but he wasn't sure how that was relevant to the subject at hand. It wasn't the first time Logan had spoken to him while he was drunk, and it probably wouldn't be the last. And he didn't feel like wasting his time on questions that didn't matter.

"Did I ever tell you that before?" he asked, ignoring Logan's question and redirecting the conversation back to the original topic.

"No, Dad," Logan replied with a sigh, resigning himself to the matter at hand. "I never knew you got published in The Atlantic."

"No! _No…_ no," Mitchum groaned angrily in response. "Not that. You're not listening to me. You never fucking _listen_ to me."

He threw himself back in his chair, the drink in his hand sloshing onto the fabric of the armrest. He was trying to _talk_ to him. To _say_ something, and he wasn't listening. He was sighing and asking if he was drunk. This was important. He had something important to say.

"Did I ever tell you that you're a good writer?" Mitchum clarified.

Logan was silent again. He could hear him breathing into the phone, but he didn't say anything. Mitchum swirled his scotch around in his glass for a moment, trying to ignore the way watching the liquid was starting to make him dizzy. He took a sip to put an end to it. And then he heard his son speak.

"Um… no," said Logan. "No, you never said that to me."

He assumed that was the case, but hearing the words and the sadness in his son's tone stung more than he'd like to admit. Had he really never said it? In thirty-four years? He'd thought it. He'd thought it plenty of times. Surely Logan knew that he thought it…

Right?

"You are. A good writer," he said. "And a damn good businessman. I always thought you would be. That's why I pushed you. I _pushed_ you. I pushed you too hard. Cause you were drifting, you know? Floating around. But you were good and smart and… you shouldn't have been floating. But I _pushed_ you. I pushed you into orbit and then I blamed you for losing your grip on gravity."

"Dad," said Logan. "That's not what ha - "

"You're not the only one who had a terrible father, you know. You like to think that you are. But you're not."

"Dad…" Logan pleaded. "I don't know what this is about. But, I think you need to drink some water and go to bed."

"My dad… _my_ dad… well… you knew my dad. And the way he treated _you_ … well… that was him being nice. He was _nice_ to you. That's how terrible _my_ dad was. You know, he used to tell me that I was too soft on you," Mitchum laughed ironically. "Can you believe that? I was too _soft_ on you."

Mitchum closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as a memory flashed in his mind. He could clearly picture his father standing in the dining room at the head of _his_ table, screaming at Mitchum for letting Logan bring _that girl_ home and letting him walk out the door with her unencumbered. As if he had something to do with it. As if Logan's personal life was his responsibility and he was failing to manage it. He'd never wanted to manage it in the first place.

"Where's Odette?" he asked. He heard Logan sigh again.

"She's in bed," said Logan. "She's sleeping. Like you should be. Because it's three o'clock in the morning."

"You know… you might find this hard to believe. But, I was in love once…"

"Dad…"

"Not with your mother," Mitchum clarified. "I never loved your mother. I thought I did for a while, but I didn't. I probably shouldn't say that to you. But I think you know. You probably know. You're too smart not to know."

Logan didn't say anything right away, not that Mitchum could really blame him. There wasn't much he could expect him to say at that particular admission. Logan's relationship with both of them was far from ideal, but Mitchum knew that at the end of the day he still loved his mother.

"I don't know how you want me to respond to that," Logan replied eventually. His voice was firmer this time. The fatigue was starting to turn to frustration. "But I think you should put the glass down and we should call it a night before you say anything else you might regret in the morning."

"I'm used to regrets. I have _a lot_ of regrets," he said. "I should have asked her to marry me. That's the biggest one. I should have asked her to marry me, but I didn't because I was afraid of my dad…"

Mitchum trailed off for a moment, taking a deep breath and bracing himself before asking his next question. He wasn't sure what the answer was going to be, and he wasn't sure how he would be able to handle whatever answer came from it. _If_ he'd be able to handle whatever answer came from it.

"Were you ever afraid of me, Logan?"

He heard a shaky inhalation of breath on the other end of the phone, and the silence that followed was the most painful so far.

"No, Dad," Logan eventually responded, his voice soft as a whisper. "I was never _afraid_ of you."

The rush of emotion that came over him at those words was almost enough to bring tears to his eyes. He felt the pricking sensation behind his irises, but he forced himself to stay composed, to push through. He still wasn't done with what he had to say, and he still refused to let his son hear him completely fall apart.

"That's good," he breathed in relief. "That's good at least."

His son hated him, but at least he hadn't grown up in fear of him. It was the smallest of accomplishments, but one that he would proudly take to his grave.

"I was _afraid_ of my dad," he said. "I was afraid of what he would do if I asked her to marry me. Because she wasn't… she wasn't what he wanted. She was gonna be a _doctor_. He didn't like that. And I was afraid of him so I didn't ask her. And then she left because she got tired of waiting. She went to med school at The Mayo Clinic and then… I guess she did her residency and her fellowship somewhere and now she's at Washington University and she has an ex-husband and at least one kid because she has a son-in-law and she's a _Cardinals_ fan. I couldn't _pay_ her to go to a Yankees game with me, but now she likes the fucking Cardinals – of all the fucking teams."

"At least it's not the Red Sox?" Logan quipped.

But, Mitchum didn't laugh. He wasn't in much of a laughing mood. The pricking feeling behind his eyes was starting to get more persistent, and at Logan's next question, he found that he wasn't able to keep it in anymore.

"Dad…" his son said, pleadingly. "Are you okay?"

He swallowed down a sob, his pride still too grand to let it be known that he'd surrendered to the tears filling his field of vision. Logan didn't need to know. He didn't want him to know that he was crying. He didn't want him to know the pain that came from ruining his life. He didn't _ever_ want him to know.

"Don't let her get away, Logan."

Silence reigned over the line once again. The only sounds Mitchum could hear were heavy breathing and the ever present noises of the city coming over the speaker from what he assumed was the balcony outside of Logan's hotel room.

"I…" Logan paused again and took another deep shaky breath. "I just told you she's in bed sleeping. We're getting married in two - "

"God! _No._ Stop!" Mitchum yelled. "Will you _stop?!_ Will you ever listen to a God damn word I have to say?!"

Mitchum almost threw his rocks glass across the room, but he settled for emptying it in his mouth instead. He stood up, rocking on his feet as he made his way over to the table where he'd placed his bottle of Balvenie for another pour.

He knew. He'd known since the moment Logan made that phone call to him back in Spring. And Logan knew that he knew. He wasn't interested in standing here and pretending that he didn't know, or that Logan didn't know exactly what he was talking about.

"Don't let her get away," he repeated.

Logan was quiet again. And just as quickly as it had bubbled up from within him, the frustration he'd felt at his son's performance of obtuseness faded away. His tone was pleading once again. And the small burst of anger was overwhelmed by the desperation he felt to save him from the pain he'd been living in for so long.

"Do you know what it's like to go forty years without _really_ laughing?" he asked.

The question was hypothetical. Mitchum was pretty sure Logan knew exactly what he was talking about. He'd seen him at lunch that day. He'd seen him smile and laugh in a way he hadn't seen since he was twenty-five years old. Ten years wasn't forty, but it was still a mighty long time to go. But, Logan was quiet, and so Mitchum went on.

"It's funny," he continued. "Because… you'd think it would be miserable. But it's not really. After a while you just kind of… forget. You forget until one day you're reminded what it's _supposed_ to feel like."

"She reminds you because she walks up to you at a fundraiser and says something funny. And at first it feels good because for a second you remember what joy feels like. But then it's gone as fast as it came because it makes you think about all the things you wanted your life to be and all the things you _didn't_ want your life to be and how nothing turned out the way it should have because you were too _afraid._ And now you have a wife that you settled for, and a daughter who only comes to you for money, and grandkids who hide behind their father's legs when they come to visit you, and a son who hates you so much he put an entire continent and three years of radio silence between you. And at the end of it he came home a better man because you weren't around to fuck him up anymore."

"… I don't hate you, Dad."

"Don't lie to me, Logan," said Mitchum. "That's the one thing we have. We've never lied to each other."

Maybe their relationship would have been better if they had – if they had told little white lies out of kindness or compassion. But, that wasn't what they did. They were always brutally honest with each other – no matter how painful.

"You're _afraid_ ," said Mitchum. "But don't be like me. Don't ruin your life because you're afraid."

"I really don't know what you're talking about - "

"You're afraid she'll say no again."

There was a sharp intake of air on the other line. It was the first time they'd talked about it since the painful last words Mitchum had spat at him before he left for California. Since then it had been an unmentionable topic. Even when Logan had slipped that one time at the Vineyard, even when Mitchum had seen them at lunch and implied on the phone call that he was suspicious of what was going on, they still never gave words to what was so clearly going on in Logan's heart and mind.

"You're afraid that if you ask her to be with you - to _really_ be with you that she'll say no again. You're afraid that she never loved you as much as you loved her in the first place. That she still doesn't. That she doesn't really want _you_ ," Mitchum continued. "You should have seen how hard she used to fight me over you… then maybe you would know that's not true."

Logan was breathing heavily on the other side of the line. But without seeing his face, it was hard for him to interpret exactly how he was reacting.

"Dad… I…"

"Don't let her get away," Mitchum said, again. "I failed you, Logan. I failed you in so many ways. I went your whole life thinking that I was doing the right thing by standing back. Thinking that not getting involved in your life your _actual_ life was good. That it was giving you freedom. That I was letting you make all your own choices. But I was wrong. I involved myself in your life in all the wrong places and didn't get involved in any of the things that actually matter. And I know one phone call doesn't change that. And I'm drunk. And I might not even remember this tomorrow. But, please, just _once_ , if you never listen to me again in your life just _please_ listen to me now…."

The silence that settled over them as he paused wasn't awkward. It was raw and painful, and he wished that he could see Logan's face, yet he had a distinct feeling that he didn't need to. He felt that he knew how Logan was reacting. He felt confident that he was _listening_. For the first time in his life, Mitchum felt like Logan was really listening to him. In that moment, Mitchum was speaking to Logan as a son rather than an employee, and Logan was _listening._

"Don't let her get away."

* * *

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well… I hope that you cried as much reading this as much as I did writing it, because if not then I failed and that will make me sad. You can probably see why I’ve decided to do an epilogue. There just isn’t enough closure. But I did want this chapter to end this way. 
> 
> Please please please review. I would really appreciate it. This entire story was a leap of faith because I wasn’t sure how people would react to it or if they would even be interested in it, and it’s meant so much to me that it has gotten such a positive reaction. :)


	10. The Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I have to say, I am a bit speechless with the reaction from the last chapter. I think that might be the most reviews I have ever gotten on a single piece of fiction, and all your words were so lovely and appreciated. I am so glad that you all liked this fic so much, especially considering I wasn’t sure anyone would even read it. Lol. Thank you all so much. 
> 
> We’re switching it up a bit for the epilogue. You will see why. But, I hope you enjoy this just as well.

**The Epilogue**

Sleep wasn't coming very easily to him at the moment.

It was strange, because this was the most tired that he could remember being in ages. It might even be the most tired he had ever been in his life. And he wasn't even the one who had done any of the work.

He thought that he would pass out at the first opportunity, that as soon as they turned the lights down and quiet settled over the room, he would succumb to his exhaustion and sleep for as long as he possibly could. Not that that would be very long, but he'd been told by a countless number of people that taking every opportunity he could to sleep in the coming months was going to be extremely important. Even if it was only a few minutes at a time.

The quiet, however, didn't seem to have the effect that he was hoping it would. If anything, the quiet was only making his mind run even faster. The stillness felt strange. It was like he was coming down from running a triathlon. His life had been moving at such a breakneck pace over the last six months - a never ending, hectic, and unstoppable pace.

At the moment, he couldn't do anything other than wonder how exactly he had gotten here, how his life had so drastically changed course in such a short amount of time and so quickly spit him out here in this very room. It felt almost surreal as he lay there staring up at the ceiling, and he realized that in all of the craziness, he'd never really gotten a moment to sit down and reflect on it all.

Yet, as it so happened - and probably would happen for the foreseeable future - his moment of reflection was spontaneously interrupted by a series of high pitched little mewls coming from the area just next to him.

"Hey, little guy," he said, sitting up on the couch he had spread himself across and reaching into the clear bassinet just off to his side. "Hey, buddy. What's going on?"

The little bundle squirmed in his hands as he was plucked out of his cozy bed. His tiny face scrunched in displeasure, and he momentarily found himself panicked that he might start to let out another torrent of loud cries. Thankfully, however, as soon as he was resting comfortably in his arms, he calmed almost immediately.

"Yeah, that's right…" he said. "You just wanted some attention, huh? That's good. We can hang out, just the two of us. Let Mommy sleep for a little bit. You kinda wore her out."

His eyes flicked upward to quickly glance at the woman lying on the small bed in the center of the room. To his great relief, her eyes were still closed in sleep. And yet, spectacularly, when he looked back down at the bundle in his arms, they were wide open. The same bright blue eyes.

People always said that witnessing the birth of a child was a miracle. It was a commonly used cliche. Something seen on every television show, heard in every story, written in every book on the subject. It was an overused term, really. Miracle. One of those words that was used so often and so inappropriately that it had started to lose all meaning to society at large. Like the word 'literally' or 'brilliant' or 'ironic.' He'd been exposed to the word so often throughout his life, that he himself didn't really have an appropriate understanding of what it meant for something to be truly _miraculous_.

Until today.

Like many, the first time he'd been introduced to the concept of a miracle was in Sunday school, hearing stories about water into wine, and loaves and fishes, and walking on water. He wasn't a particularly religious person, and he knew that if he was it would probably be blasphemous to think such a thing, but even those feats didn't really seem all that awe inspiring compared to what had happened to him that afternoon. In comparison, they seemed like magic tricks, incredible to behold but entirely lacking in the profound depth of emotion he felt at this moment.

It wasn't a loaf of bread that had appeared magically before their eyes, it was an entire living being. It was a pair of hands with the tiniest fingernails he'd ever seen. Feet. Toes. Hair. Eyes. An entire consciousness that hadn't existed for billions of years suddenly existed and he had created it. He'd seen it birthed into the universe right before his very eyes. There wasn't any other word for it but 'miracle.' Yet, even still, it didn't feel strong enough.

"You have Mommy's eyes, you know," he said. "Lucky guy. The girls are going to go crazy for those when you're older. Or the boys. You know...whoever."

The eyes in question were blinking up at him, slightly unfocused but still observing the source of his voice. He hoped it was familiar. All the books that he read had mentioned that babies could recognize the sound of voices after birth, that if you talked to them enough in the womb they were more likely to bond with you. He didn't want his son to spend even one second of his life thinking that he was a stranger.

"I know we just met, so there's a lot I don't know about you yet. You'll have to be patient with me," he said. "But, you know… whoever you want to love. That's fine with me. Whoever you want to be is fine with me."

Before six months ago, he'd never really given much thought to being a father. The idea of a future with children had always been some kind of vague dreamlike image, but never one that he really sat down and reflected on. He'd imagined what having kids might look like, he'd thought practically about the steps he would need to take to care for said children - set up funds, research the best schools, buy all the necessary equipment, make sure they had food to eat and a bed to sleep in. But, he'd never really thought that much about being a _father_.

He was terrified.

He hadn't admitted that to anyone. In fact, it had taken a while for him to admit it to himself. The emotions were confusing, and they had all come rushing over him in the last six months in a relentless and jumbled cacophony of feelings and events. For a long time, he never knew what exactly he was feeling from one moment to another. Relief. Joy. Heartbreak. Love. Betrayal. Anger. Excitement. Fear. So much had happened that it was difficult to isolate a single trigger for the onset of his anxiety.

Now, however, in the quiet of the hospital room with his brand new child in his arms it was impossible to ignore just how scared he was. He'd never been so responsible for a single thing in his life. He'd never felt this level of devotion to something in his life. And he knew all too well how easy it would be for him to screw this up… just like he'd screwed up so many other aspects of his life.

"No matter what you decide to do, you'll never disappoint me, okay?" he continued. "I'll love you no matter what. I promise. I never want you to doubt that."

The baby grunted in response. His little tongue stuck out of his mouth and he kicked one of his legs against his arm. Obviously, he knew that he didn't understand the words that he was saying. But, then, he didn't really need to. Not yet anyway. They were more for him, a reminder to himself.

He'd spent so much of his childhood worrying that the affection of his father was conditional, and he knew all too well the psychological damage that came with those thoughts. The effect it had on his self-esteem, on his emotional well being, on his relationships… it couldn't be understated. They were wounds that he was working on fixing, but they had been festering for thirty-four years. And if he had the choice, he would keep his son from ever being wounded to begin with.

The problem was that, rationally, he knew that was impossible. No matter how much he loved him. He'd only recently come to truly realize how much his father loved _him._ He'd raised him thinking that he was doing what was best, thinking that he was making up for the mistakes that his own father had made, only to create a brand new and entirely unique well of his own mistakes.

That was what was so terrifying - all of the ways that he could end up wounding his own child without even realizing it.

"You can be a businessman or a doctor or go to clown college. I will always be proud of you. You'll always be able to count on me, okay?"

The baby was still looking up at him with his innocent and oblivious expression. His bright blue eyes were blinking at him and the little hat that had been placed on his head was starting to slide off, revealing a fine tuft of blond hair. All he could do was marvel at him - this perfect little being in his arms, a perfect combination of he and the woman he loved. It was such a … miracle.

There was that word again. Miracle.

"Logan."

A quiet voice called to him from the doorway along with a soft tapping of some knuckles against the open door. He looked up from the face of his son and was met with the face of his father watching him. He was earlier than he expected, and it seemed that Mitchum himself was worrying that the timing of his appearance wasn't great.

"Hey," Logan greeted, softly.

"Should I come back later?" asked Mitchum, glancing briefly over at Rory whose eyes were still closed in sleep. Logan observed her for a moment as well, but considering how she hadn't woken up at the sound of his knock, it was likely that she wasn't going to wake up at all. As long as they were able to keep their voices down.

"No," said Logan. "Now is fine. He's awake."

The 'he' in question whined and squirmed a bit in Logan's arms, breaking free of the swaddle that Logan had already loosened when picking him up. He bounced and shushed him for a moment, trying to settle him once again as Mitchum walked over to them and looked upon his grandson with a smile. The baby started to clench and unclench his fist around nothing but air, and Mitchum reached down to offer him his index finger.

"Yeah," the older man said. "That's a strong handshake you've got there."

"Do you want to hold him?"

Logan could instantly tell that his father was surprised by the question. Mitchum wasn't really a baby guy. He wasn't much of a children guy at all - Logan knew that from experience. But asking was part of the healing process that the therapist he'd been seeing had recommended to him. Actively inviting his father into his life in small ways. It had been working.

He and his father were never going to be best friends. The kind of relationship that Rory had with her mother was so far out of reach for the two of them - for a plethora of different reasons. But there had been a fundamental shift since the night of the Sloan Kettering fundraiser, one that was impossible to ignore. And one that, to Logan's surprise, he didn't really _want_ to ignore.

There had been a kind of breakthrough after that phone call. It was the first time in Logan's life where he'd started to see his father as just another person. Not an abstract parental authority figure, but a living breathing human being just like him - with fears, anxieties, traumas, and insecurities of his own. He'd read that a lot of people had that epiphany in their twenties, and for a long time he even thought that he'd already understood that about his parents. But he hadn't. Not really.

Perhaps it was because he'd been gone for so long in his twenties. Or perhaps it was because Mitchum himself had made it difficult to ever see the humanity that lie underneath the surface of his perpetually professional and foreboding exterior. Maybe it was Logan's own anger and resentment at their tumultuous history that made him refuse to acknowledge any vulnerability that might live inside the man. It was a lot easier to justify his anger toward his father when he thought of him only as a villain.

But it was hard to see him as a villain after that night. In fact, after that night Logan had started to feel a profound empathy for his father. It didn't excuse any of the pain he'd caused throughout Logan's life, and it didn't fix the damage caused by that pain. But, it did help him to understand. He understood more than he was comfortable admitting how living in constant pain and regret could destroy a man's soul.

It was a fate he'd come far too close to living as well, and his father had saved him from it. Logan had lived his entire life believing that he couldn't count on his father for anything. And, yet, in the darkest hour of his life, it was his father who had recognized how close he was to the edge and had reached out his hand to pull him back from it.

"Oh, uh…" said Mitchum. "I…"

Logan didn't give him much of an opportunity to answer. He stood up and handed the child over to him, placing him in Mitchum's arms before he had the chance to protest. The baby fussed for a few moments, causing Logan to throw a nervous glance over to Rory. But, when he looked back after seeing that she was still fast asleep, Mitchum had settled the infant into his arms, and the baby's cries had stopped.

"Have you guys picked a name yet?" Mitchum asked as he looked down at the child with a wide smile, his finger once again clasped in the little boy's fist.

"Theodore," Logan answered.

"Ah," Mitchum grinned. "Teddy, huh?"

"Theo," Logan corrected.

The name was somewhat arbitrary. They'd considered Richard briefly, for obvious reasons. But ultimately, they decided against it. Rory wanted their child to have a name of his own rather than be set up to subconsciously feel like he had to live up to someone else's legacy. And Logan… Well, Logan had more practical concerns regarding the world they lived in and certain commonly used nicknames for Richard. Surviving the playground was hard enough as a child without your parents drawing such an easy target on your back.

They'd moved on to other names, wanting to pick something that held some vague significance to them, favorite authors, historical figures, journalists. Ultimately they'd decided on a Yale inspired name. One night, while flipping through some old photographs in Rory's childhood bedroom, they'd landed on a picture of her touching the bronze toe of Theodore Woolsey with glee. There was just something about the name that stuck with them. They liked it. It felt right.

"Nah. He looks like a Teddy to me," said Mitchum, shaking his head. Then, he looked downward to address the baby personally. "What do you think about that, huh? You'll always be good ol' Ted to your grandpa."

Logan sighed. There were some things about his father that would never change. He would always be stubborn. He would always insist on doing things his own way. Logan could probably always expect to be steamrolled in one way or another. But, in another time, Logan would have been triggered by his casual refusal to address their son by the nickname they'd chosen. Now, however, he was merely annoyed.

It wasn't perfect, but it was an improvement. He wasn't going to get hung up on it.

"Theodore Mitchum Huntzberger."

The look that his father gave him upon hearing his son's full name was unlike any expression Logan had ever seen on his face. There was an element of shock that was abundantly clear, and even recognizable. But, there was also something else there. Something that Logan had never seen before. He seemed almost… touched.

"Huh," he replied with a grunt and a clearing of his throat, not quite finding the words. "How 'bout that."

"I mean that's… the tradition. Right?"

He wasn't sure how far back the tradition went,, but at the very least it was three generations. He'd gotten his middle name from his grandfather, his father from his, and even his grandfather from his. The first born son of the first born son and so on and so forth. And while there had once been a time when Logan wanted nothing more than to take a sledgehammer to the Huntzberger family traditions, he was reaching a point in his life where they were becoming far more appealing to him.

It was also an olive branch, and Logan was hoping that his father would recognize it as such. It was a peace offering and an offer of gratitude. The truth was, he was acutely aware of the fact that had it not been for his father's intervention, he might not be standing in this room right now. The baby would still be here, but he might not. It was a possibility that Logan didn't like to think about, and he would be eternally grateful to his father for giving him the push he needed to go after the woman he loved.

"Yeah…" said Mitchum. "I guess that's true. Though I'm surprised Rory went along with it. I'd assumed it would be Richard."

Logan shrugged. He had been surprised himself at first, thinking that since they'd decided not to go with the first name of Richard that she would certainly fight for the middle name and that the somewhat troubled history between her and his father would have made the idea less than appealing to her. But, she seemed to realize that it was important to Logan, that it was a major step in repairing the damage between them. And, graciously, she'd supported him in it, understanding that the impact it would have on their son's living grandfather outweighed the impact it would have on his great-grandfather who had already passed.

A silence settled over them for a moment as Mitchum continued to cradle his grandson, counting his fingers and observing every detail that he could about him. Logan sighed, the fatigue starting to settle over him yet again, and Mitchum seemed to notice his sudden change in demeanor. He looked up from the baby and observed him for a moment instead.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

He knew that he meant physically. It was Logan's exhaustion that he was observing more than anything. Yet, maybe it was because of all the reflection he'd been doing. Or maybe it was because the exhaustion was starting to lower his inhibitions. But, the answer he gave was far more personal than the one his father was expecting.

"I'm scared," he said.

Logan couldn't recall the last time he had admitted to his father that he was scared. He was sure it must have happened at some point, possibly when he was a young child. But there wasn't a particular memory that was jumping out to him. He couldn't remember ever running to his parents' bedroom after a bad dream, or clutching to the handlebars of a bicycle without training wheels with his father standing behind him. He definitely didn't remember going to his father when he was falling in love for the first time, terrified of his emotions and what they meant. And he definitely couldn't admit it to him when he'd blown his life apart and moved to California, terrified of being on his own for the first time in his life.

As far as he was aware this was the first time he was confiding such a thing in his father, and he didn't really know what to expect in return.

"Yeah," Mitchum answered with an understanding nod. "I know."

While they had gone a long way in their relationship with each other in the last few months, they still weren't exactly opening up and getting sappy about their feelings. Their communication would probably always be somewhat silent, between the lines. Though, whether that was something specific to just the two of them or more of a typical masculine way to process emotions, he wasn't sure. Probably a combination of both. Regardless, the comment still meant something to him.

It wasn't exactly a profound piece of advice. It wasn't advice at all, actually. Yet, somehow, Logan was comforted by it. The simple acknowledgement that his father understood what he was feeling. The implication that he himself had felt the same way when he was born. It comforted him. It made him feel less alone. And it made him realize that even through all of their problems - all of the road bumps, struggles, estrangements, and so much more that he and his father had been through - he'd still felt this way the day that he'd been born. He'd felt the same profound fear and anxiety, the fear and anxiety that was so clearly born of an all encompassing _love_ for the tiny little creature he was now responsible for.

At that moment, the newest tiny little creature to enter into the Huntzberger family decided to turn his mild fusses into a full blown scream fest. His little face scrunched in discomfort, and hearty cries started to pour from his lips. Mitchum looked entirely terrified at the situation, and Logan stepped forward, relieving him of the child.

"Theo?"

Rory's tired and gravelly voice traveled their way from the bed, her nap now officially at an end. She groggily looked around the room for a moment, her eyes scanning over the empty bassinet as she tried to return to the land of the conscious and locate the baby.

"I got him," said Logan as he walked over to the bed.

"Hi, Rory," his father said, greeting the mother of his grandchild with a friendly smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted," Rory answered with a sigh. Mitchum chuckled in response.

"I can imagine," he said.

The conversation ended there. Rory was far too concerned with Theo to pay his father that much attention, and as the baby continued to cry without showing any sign of calming, she was clearly ready to take matters into her own hands.

"He's probably hungry," she said, reaching up for Logan to hand the child over to her.

Next to him, Mitchum stiffened, entirely uncomfortable with the mere suggestion of what was about to happen. Logan was fairly certain that his father had never participated in a single feeding when he and his sister were in their infancies. And even if he had, they were formula children. The mere mention of breastfeeding was enough to turn him into a twelve year old boy being forced to talk about a girl's period. It was just too much for him to handle.

"I guess I'll go downstairs and find your mother before she buys up the entire gift shop," he said, smoothly trying to cover his discomfort.

Rory chuckled in response, though whether it was at Mitchum's humorous dig at Shira or his clear discomfort was anyone's guess. She took Theo from Logan's arms and brought him close to her chest, shushing and cooing at him as he continued to cry and scream for his lunch.

"Bye, Dad," he responded, his eyes lingering on the man for a few seconds as he disappeared out the door.

When he looked back down at Rory, she was adjusting the top of her hospital gown, opening it up to let Theo latch on. And he did without a moment's hesitation. Even the lactation nurse had commented that she'd rarely seen a newborn take to breastfeeding so immediately and with such enthusiasm. But, then, she'd never met a Gilmore.

Logan smiled down at both of them.

He still wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten here. That single phone call from his father had set in motion a series of events in his life that he could have never seen coming.

They still had a lot of work to do. There was still a lot of hurt and distrust between them. They were still getting to know each other again after the casual and limited nature of their relationship over the last couple years. Logan was still getting over the hurt she'd caused by hiding her pregnancy from him in the beginning. But, he was confident in one thing. The one thing that really mattered. The one thing that made him know deep within his heart that he'd made the right decision, no matter how much work they needed to do and how hard it was to do it.

"I love you," he said, seemingly out of nowhere.

Rory looked up at him with a solemn and vulnerable glint in her eye. He could see some wetness starting to form at the inner corners, no doubt a result of the hormones that were raging within her at unparalleled levels. She smiled at him and reached out to take his hand in hers, squeezing his fingers tightly.

"I love you too," she said.

Logan threw one leg over the side of the bed, sitting down next to her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, looked down at their son cradled against her in her arms, and he was filled with a profound sense of optimism. It didn't entirely make the fear go away. But, the idea that he was facing it with the woman he loved the most in the world by his side was enough to make it bearable.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the switch into Logan's mind. I know a lot of you were hoping to see Logan run to Rory's door, but as I've said before, this is a father/son story. Not really a Rory/Logan story. I also know a lot of you were hoping Mitchum would run after Lizzie and leave Shira. I guess I'll leave that open for you to imagine what you wish. Hahaha.
> 
> Thanks again so much for all your support for this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please leave a review. I'd really like to know what you all think of this, so I know whether or not I'm wasting my time. Lol. Thanks for reading!


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